Grumpy Old Men
by Lampito
Summary: Time catches up with everybody eventually, even the inhabitants of Singer Salvage. Growing old is unavoidable, but growing up, that's optional... COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Aaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaargh! The bunnies! The bunnies! THEY WILL NOT STOP! MAKE THEM STOOOOOP!

This one will stand as a one-shot, just a little glimpse into the future in the Jimiverse, unless those damned rabbits come up with a job to drag the Winchesters out of retirement...

**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine, I just prod them to see if they do anything amusing.

**TITLE: **Grumpy Old Men

**RATING:** T. Because words. And Dean. And words. And Dean. And Dean words.

**SUMMARY:** Time catches up with everybody eventually, even the inhabitants of Singer Salvage. Growing older is unavoidable, but growing up, that's optional...

**BLAME:** Lies entirely with the Denizens, especially the ones who asked for something like this, and especially especially whoever sent this plot bunny *shakes fist*

* * *

Sam peered at his notes, then into the mortar where he was grinding his components. He adjusted his glasses, and felt a small stab of amusement that he didn't need bifocals like his brother. Yet, anyway. It was probably only a matter of time. Of course, when it became necessary, he wouldn't complain like hell the way Dean had, he'd just accept that his body was ageing and learn to use them, not walk around bumping into things and shouting at newpapers for being printed too closely and yell at screens for being too fuzzy, like somebody he could name did...

He added a pinch of the dried rosemary flowers that he'd carefully collected last time the gnarled almost-tree had flowered with its unusual blood-red petals. Zara, it had been, he thought fondly, his eyes might be going, but he remembered the names of all the dogs 'brought home' by their Hunters, big men and hard women reduced to sobbing kids as they scattered the ashes of a fallen friend around the large, sprawling shrub, where the dog would have played as a pup. The rosemary always bloomed afterwards, and over the last few years he'd found that it could do some amazing things.

Of course, other Hunters mostly _were _kids these days compared to the Winchesters, he thought to himself.

"Okay," he muttered, tipping some small piles of the mix onto a white ceramic tile, "I think we're ready to rock and roll here. Ladies!"

A couple of ageing Rottweilers, sprawled by the fire, lifted their grizzled heads to grin doggily at him, then yawned, and resumed their snoozing.

"Hey!" Sam called them in mock outrage, "Where's your sense of scientific enquiry?" One dog thumped her tail on the floor, while the other exerted just enough effort to roll onto her back in the universal canine appeal for a belly rub.

With an exaggerated sigh, he got up from his chair. "Well, if the mountain must come to Mohammed," he grinned at them, kneeling carefully to avoid jarring anything, because his joints sometimes ached something shocking in the cold these days, and obliged.

"Come on, then, you degenerate freeloaders," he ordered, brandishing his swabs, "Work for your kibble, you lazy pensioners! Open up in the name of research!" Mercury yawned again, and lolled her tongue at him as he ran the swab around the inside of her mouth, while Shiloh tried to nibble the swab, and whuffed happily at the game she thought he was playing.

"Hey! Let go of that!" he laughed, wiggling the swab in her mouth, "Let go! Philistine!" Shiloh whuffed cheerfully again, and extruded her snaggled hellteeth for one last snap at the swab. "Aaaaaaargh!" Sam snatched his hand away. "Whose side are you on here?" She made a contented grumphing noise, and pushed her head under his hand for pats. "Hedonist," he chided her.

The two elderly dogs followed him back to the table, where he rubbed each swab in a small pile of the greeny-black crumble on the tile. The first one didn't do much, just turned into a dark grey-green glob of slobber. The second one didn't look like it was going to do much, then...

As he watched, the end of the swab began to glow, and pulse with heatless red light, like a cyalume glow stick. A smile broke out across his face, dimples still clear on the weathered skin. "Aha!" he declared to the dogs, "Ladies, we have ignition!" Both dogs stood and wagged their tails at his happy tone, Shiloh's eyes whirling gently with the dark red of dying embers. "This is great," he mused, half to himself and half to the dogs. The deep rumbling of the Impala's engine signalled his brother's return. "Dean will be pleased to hear this," he told them. "Well, after he comes in and yells for his lunch. And," he shuddered, "Gives me a disgustingly detailed description of his morning's 'activities'..."

Sam put down the swabs and headed for the kitchen. Bobby was already there.

"It works," he grinned at the greyed old man who was practically his father, "The Winchester Hellhound Lineage Detection Kit works!"

"Yeah?" Bobby's face was as lined as a road map as he smiled. "Well done, kid. You think you can get it to quantify the Blood in a particular dog?"

"Probably," Sam nodded. Bobby grunted in satisfaction, and got on with his preparations – it became apparent that French toast with bacon was on the menu.

"Bobby," Sam sighed, "You're supposed to be avoiding undercooked eggs and fatty meat."

"Yeah?" Bobby squinted at him. "Says who?"

"Dr Alderton says..."

"Bah! A pox on Doctor Alderton!" the elderly Hunter snapped. "Doctor Alderton would have me living on lettuce, Sustagen and Metamucil if she had her way! That woman is on a crusade, Sam, a crusade to make what's left of my life as miserable as possible!"

"She's your doctor, Bobby," Sam tried not to roll his eyes, "She's thinking of your health. At your age, you should be avoiding..."

"I should be avoiding doctors who tell me what I should be avoiding," Bobby grumped. "You ever considered exorcisin' her?"

"No," Sam said through clenched teeth, "Because she's not possessed, Bobby, she's a medical practitioner."

"She's a sadist, is what she is," Bobby shot back. "Avoid booze! Avoid cheese! Avoid salami and pepperoni! Moderate red meat! That woman is some sort of changeling variant, Sam, only instead of sucking away life energy, she sucks away fun..."

"I've always found her to be professional and courteous," Sam told him. "She just wants you to be as healthy as you can be. So you can live as long as possible with a good quality of life."

"Oh, goody," scoffed Bobby, peeling rashers from the bacon packet, "I'll live another ten years, that's another ten years to be hungry and miserable and pizza-deprived! Look at me, everybody! I'm more 'n a hundred years old, my colon is the strongest muscle in my body, I'm the most regular man in the nursing home – all the nurses set their watches by my bowel habits – and I'm so hungry I could eat my own incontinence pad!"

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "Bobby..."

"I'm not goin' for it, Sam! I gotta die of something, and I'd rather die of bacon than of bran and boredom!" Bobby broke more eggs into the bowl. "I don't wanna live long enough to be shipped off to one of those places," he muttered, "I've chased down, faced down and dispatched some of the most evil damned sumbitches that roam God's green Earth, and I deserve better! I'd rather die in a congealing pool of bacon grease than a pool of my own drool."

"You know we won't let that happen," Sam sighed, getting a pan out of a cupboard. "You can stay in your own home. When needs must, we can get a visiting nurse to help you out with any daily activities you might need help with..."

"Aint no strange wimmen followin' me into the shower," declared Bobby. "And the day I can't take myself to the can is the day I blow my own head off."

"You're as bad as Dean," Sam shook his head.

"Nope," countered Bobby, at the sound of feet on the porch steps, "At least I don't regale you with tales of, well, you know." He shuddered. "Crap, I hate that bit," he muttered. "I'd swear she dips her hands in ice water first..."

"Well, not this time," said Sam firmly. "There are some things that nobody should have to listen to, and a blow by blow description of..._ that _is one of them. This year, I am putting my foot down."

"Good luck," offered Bobby fatalistically.

The dogs made their way to the door, woofing and wagging their tails as Dean came banging through, pulling off his jacket.

"Hey, girls, you been keeping an eye on Francis and Methuselah for me?" he asked them as they greeted him. "Is this lunch? Oh, cool, French toast and bacon!"

"Dean," huffed Sam in exasperation, "You've just come from your annual check-up, and I just know that you've been told to lay off the fatty food and booze..."

"Just like every other year," shrugged Dean, helping himself to a beer from the refrigerator. "Don't get your panties in a twist. I got the cholesterol levels of a 40-year old, the muscle tone of a 40-year-old, the heart-lung capacity of a 40-year old..."

"And the liver of a guy in his nineties," finished Sam.

"Ah, so that's where it went!" cackled Bobby. "Give me back my liver, you asshat!"

"You guys are unbelievable," sighed Sam in resignation.

"Don't you talk to me about unbelievable," replied Dean, "I'll tell you something unbelievable, I sure as hell didn't believe it, I went along for my appointment, right, just to keep my baby bro happy, because the Living Sex God might be well past the halfway mark but he remains a magnificent physical specimen, and does not need an annual physical, I only do it to humour you, and because Doctor Alderton is kinda hot for her age, in an uptight sort of way, so I turn up, and put on that stupid paper gown, and then..."

"Hold it!" barked Sam. "Stop right there!"

"What?" Dean looked bewildered.

"You heard me!" Sam told him. "Stop right there!"

"What's wrong?" Dean asked. "I'm just telling you about..."

"And I don't want to know!" Sam snapped. "You do this every year, Dean! Every year! And I'm sick of it!"

"Well, you're the one who's so keen for me to go," Dean replied, "I thought you'd want to hear all the gory details."

"Well, I don't!" Sam was emphatic. "You don't tell me to keep me informed Dean, you tell me to squick me out! You are a depraved individual..."

"She's an attractive professional older woman, Sam," grinned Dean, "If she'd just let her hair down – I've fantasised about sinking my teeth into her bun, you know..."

"I said, I don't want to hear it!" repeated Sam. "So, shut the hell up!"

"You know, you could consider it intel for when you go," Dean began.

"No!" Sam cut him off. "Be quiet! Stop it! I don't want to hear it, Dean! I seriously do not want to hear it! You do this every year, and this year, I do not want to hear it! Do you understand? I do NOT want to hear the details of your prostate exam, you pervert!"

"Mine's like that of a 40-year-old," grinned Dean smugly, "Because I've kept it well exercised. Yours, on the other hand, is that of a guy in his nineties..."

"I don't want that back," Bobby interrupted, "You can keep it, I got no use for it."

Sam sank into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. "I hate you so much," he moaned.

"Have some bacon on French toast, Sam," grinned Dean. Sam glared at his brother; in his sixties, the Killer Smile had hardly dimmed at all. "It's not too late, you know," Dean went on, "You should go along to some of those seniors' aquarobics classes that Doc A. is always going on about. There are a number of ladies of an appropriate age who look damned fine in their bathing suits."

"How would you know?" queried Sam.

"Because I went along to one," replied Dean.

"What?" Sam snorted in disbelief. "You never did an aquarobics class in your life!"

"Well, of course I didn't do the class," Dean rolled his eyes, "I just went along to watch. I'm serious, bro, a lot of those ladies have made an effort..."

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "Whatever happened to growing old gracefully?"

"Getting old is not for wimps, Sam," Dean asserted, "And life is too short to do aquarobics. Unless you're doing it to meet women. You gotta do something. You need to get laid, Sam. Have you got laid any time in the last decade? Do you even remember how to jerk off? Do we need to talk to Doctor Alderton about getting you some little blue pills?"

"You don't, you know," Bobby commented, "You can get 'em over the counter from the drugstore these days, you just gotta discuss it with the pharmacist."

"I don't want to know why you know that," griped Sam, as Bobby cackled and Dean grinned. "I got the test for Hellhound heritage working," he went on, trying to change to direction of the conversation.

"Do you think Doctor A would take the hint if I took along my own flavoured lube next time?" pondered Dean out loud.

Sam shot his brother a well-practised Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust), and took his plate out of the kitchen.

"That never gets old for you, does it?" Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Nope," grinned Dean, "I've been grossing out my baby bro for so long, I can't imagine not doing it."

"You've got Merlin Syndrome," Bobby told him, "The older you get, the less grown-up you get."

"Growing old is unavoidable, Bobby," Dean shoved another rasher of bacon into his mouth. "But growing up, that's optional."

"Amen," smiled Bobby. "Now, get me a beer, Junior."

* * *

Reviews are the Not So Geriatric Winchester Of Your Choice Choosing Not To Grow Up On The Porch Swing Of Life!


	2. Chapter 2

Hey! HEY! Which one of you relentless wretches has been feeding the plot bunny? *taps foot* Well? This little sod has been chewing on my ear while I'm trying to get some work done!

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Sam had the phone clamped to one ear and two tablets on the small cluttered desk in front of him. He might have been too old to do much Hunting himself any more, but he had taken on unofficial yet indispensable coordination of an extensive network of Hunters, much as Bobby had done when the Winchesters were still on the job. The two of them were widely acknowledged as the go-to guys if you couldn't figure out what you were dealing with, how to kill it, or if a Hunt went south and somebody had to be sent in to take over. He was also a tinkerer, researcher and poker-atter of various occult spells, rituals and artefacts, which had produced some very useful new items and weapons (the Hellhound bloodline detection kit being the latest) and a blessed minimum of mishaps (the less said about the unfortunate incident with the zombie gummi bears the better).

"You're kinda like M and Q rolled into one", Dean had once opined, "Which makes me 007, and makes you, uh..."

"The Big O, I guess," replied Sam guilelessly. "In between M and Q."

"That is so disturbing I have to go and lie down now," Dean had muttered in disgust.

"Uh-huh," Sam talked as he tapped at one tablet, "Okay... okay... you sure? Yeah, I'll see who I can find. You take care. Heal up properly, this time, remember what happened last time you went back to the job with a limb still in a cast. What? Don't you call me a mother hen, you young asshole, I'll have you know that when I was your age, we didn't know about the binding chant, you had to get close enough to set 'em on fire! Okay. You behave yourself. Bye." He sighed as the call ended.

" 'When I was your age'?" cackled Bobby, "Did I actually hear you say 'When I was your age'?"

"Oh, God," sighed Sam, "How she's not dead I don't know. The kid has no sense of self-preservation..."

"That 'kid' turned thirty a month ago," chortled Bobby.

"What?" Sam's head snapped up. "You're shitting me."

"I shit you not," Bobby replied. "She's been thinkin' of getting another dog, too. Maybe one of Shannon's, when they're old enough. She's in the queue, anyway."

"Not that it matters," Sam grinned back. Dogs from the small kennel that Dean had established at Singer Salvage, descended from 'Winchester Ladies' Man', were highly sought after by Hunters, but it was well known that no Hunter got to choose a dog – a pup would choose its Alpha, and that was the end of it. "But we still have the problem of the mysterious retirement home deaths."

"You figured out what they're tryin' to deal with yet?" Bobby asked.

Sam shook his head.

"It seems to vary every time someone goes in to check it out, then they get damaged," Sam related to Bobby. "That's four who've had to break off due to injury." He brought up a map on one tablet, and picked up his phone again. "I'll see who's in the area.'

"O' course, when I was your age, we'd just charge in there and cut off its head," declared Bobby, cackling again for good measure as he adjusted his glasses and took down another book.

"When I was her age, we used to gank anybody who cackled, on account of them probably being a witch," he replied.

"One of the privileges of reaching my age and being considered a crazy old idjit is being allowed to cackle," Bobby insisted. "Hell, it's not just allowed, it's expected!"

"Can't you take up collecting teabag tags or something?" pleaded Sam.

"It's cackling, or hoarding cats," Bobby informed him, "Or wearin' my shorts on my head."

Sam was muttering about statistics regarding development of dementia when they heard the door bang.

"Sam? Sam!" The dulcet tones of Dean yelling for his brother as he stomped into the house drifted to them. "SAAAAAAAAAM!" He made his way to the study, and took in the sight of Bobby poring over a book while Sam peered at his tablets. "Hey, Darth Grandad," he grinned, "Can I borrow Darth Bitch here?"

"Sure," shrugged Bobby, "Just stamp him and have him back in two weeks."

"What do you want, Dean? I'm kind of busy," Sam frowned.

"I need to get the ladder out and evict some pigeons," Dean explained, "They've been getting into the shed roof, and crapping on my Baby."

"Tiem and Zan usually take care of the pigeons," remarked Bobby.

"These flying rodents have crawled in where the gargoyles can't get 'em," explained Dean. "A raccoon made a hole in the eaves, and I need to block off the hole. Plus, I may get a coonskin hat out of it!"

"Yeah, well, you just be careful," Bobby warned, "They carry diseases. You corner one, it may decide it wants a Dean skin scarf."

"So, come on Francis," prompted Dean, "Make yourself useful."

"Sure," Sam agreed, "Just as soon as I've done this." He dialled on his cell.

"Now, Sam!" scowled Dean impatiently, "I want to get it done right away!"

"Well, I need to get this done right away," Sam replied, "Connor? It's Sam. Yeah, look I got a job that needs someone to cover it, Wendy got her leg broken..."

"Saaaaaaam!" whined Dean.

"Hang on a minute," Sam said pleasantly. "Dean, will you stop whining?"

"I'm an old man here, Sam," complained Dean.

"Only from the chin down," replied Sam tartly, "Sorry, Connor... no, it's just Dean. I think a witch put a hex on him that regressed him mentally to four years old, and it's permanent; he'll never grow up any more than that between the ears. When? By my estimation, about sixty years ago now..."

"I could be dead before you finish dicking around there!" snapped Dean.

"You won't stay dead," Sam said casually, "Not while I'm still alive to annoy. Sorry, Connor, so, there's this job, we're not sure what it is..."

"HEY, CONNOR!" shouted Dean, "TELL FRANCIS TO COME AND HELP ME AND CALL YOU BACK LATER!"

"Dean!" snapped Sam. "Will you shut up? You're like a toddler who can't handle delayed gratification!"

"Delayed gratification has no place outside the bedroom, Sam," Dean told him sternly. "Unless you're in a car, or a spa, or up a tree, there was this girl once, she was an arborist..."

"Gah!" Sam shot Dean a glare of pure Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). "Dean! Shut! Up! And! Go! Away! I'll come and help when I can!"

Muttering darkly that he'd take care of it himself, Dean stomped back out of the house.

He headed for the kennels, his grumpiness evaporating as he approached.

"Hey, guys," he called cheerfully, grinning. He was answered by a series of yips, yaps and woofs, as the pups left off their games and rassling to rush to the fencing and wag their tails, little faces grinning doggily. Their dam, Shannon, lounged lazily in the sun on her day bed, the end of her tail wagging as he approached. He had intended to spend some time with the pups, maybe let them out to stalk each other around the gnarled old rosemary shrub, a game that never got old for them, when one nosed uncertainly at the wire mesh.

Suddenly, as he watched, one of the litter managed the walk-right-through-the-fence thing, and came galumphing towards him as fast as her little feet would carry her. Her siblings went into a frenzy of barking, then, one by one, they followed her example. Shannon watched, unconcerned; she was not of Jimi's bloodline, but this was her second litter, and she was well accustomed to dealing with offspring with Hellhound heritage.

"Aren't you clever!" He hunkered down to pet and rassle with the pups, who clustered around him, wanting to play. "Aren't you all just so clever!" They basked in his attention. "It'll be time for you guys to pick Hunters soon, won't it? Yes it will! Yes it will!" He opened the pen to let Shannon out, and she languidly made her way to the red rosemary – Kali's Rosemary, Sam called it, in memory of the first Hunter's dog they'd ever encountered, whose ashes had changed the plant and given it some interesting occult properties – a very pleasant place to sit and take in the sun, where the incumbent pensioners, Mercury and Shiloh, had already made themselves comfortable. Rumsfeld, like his many namesakes before him, preferred to snooze on the hood of an old truck that afforded him an elevated view of the yard.

Dean paused and watched as the puppies enjoyed their squabbling games of stalk and chase, then suddenly ran out of energy, the way pups do, and flopped down against their dam, and their... what would Shiloh be? A cousin, so many times removed? He'd have to ask Sam. There was something about having dogs around the place that was... comfortable.

Satisfied that all the pups were out of the way, he went to fetch the ladder.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

In the cosmic scheme of things, 'bad luck' is usually a misperception of undesirable outcomes in all sorts of situations outweighing more fortuitous ones in the experience of an individual. It's what makes people notice that the other checkout queue at the supermarket, or the adjacent lane of traffic, is moving faster than their own, whereas they rarely notice when the line they are in moves faster than the others.

Occasionally, there would be instances in which Time, Creation and Chaos would appear to conspire to produce an event which, given the range of possible outcomes, manifested as the least desirable, least convenient and most unhelpful one. If it happened once, it could be chalked up to statistical randomness. If it happened twice, a person could jokingly sigh 'God hates me'.

If it happened through your entire life every time you desperately needed Fate, Destiny, Chance or just the random motion of the universe to cut you a break, it could be described as Winchester Luck.

The person watching Dean fetch the ladder, extend it to its full length, lean it up against the shed and then test its footing had heard a lot about the Winchesters, including the Winchester Luck. She'd heard that they were the best Hunters that North America had seen in a generation. She'd heard that once killed, they had a habit of not staying dead. (Theories about that abounded, but the consensus seemed to be that Heaven couldn't handle them, Hell was afraid they'd take over, and Purgatory had nailed the gate shut just in case.) Trying to kill them was certainly regarded as A Bad Idea – chances were you'd just annoy them.

She smiled to herself as she watched. From tales she'd heard, Winchesters were supposed to be ten feet tall, bullet proof, immortal, piss holy water and shit consecrated iron, snap wendigos across their knees, pull vampires' heads off with their teeth, smack werewolves into submission with rolled-up newspapers and burn demons out just by smiling at them – but this was just an old guy, somebody's grandfather, with greyed hair thinning slightly at the temples and a slight limp and posture that hinted at old injuries of shoulder and knee come home to roost. Not just an old guy, but an old fool – anyone with half a brain could see that going up a ladder like that without somebody to steady it was a risky proposition.

Briefly, she considered just darting out, giving the ladder a good shove, and letting Newtonian physics take its course. It would be deemed an unfortunate accident, cause of death: gravity. But that was not in her nature. It had taken her a lot of time and effort to get through the wards around the place; after all that work, she wanted a chance to sneer. She wanted a chance to gloat.

After all, what kudos would there be in disposing of a Winchester if he didn't know he'd been disposed of by a demon?

* * *

*taps foot again* I'm waiting for the culprit to own up...

Reviews will, no doubt, feed the damned rabbit some more.


	3. Chapter 3

Damned plot bunnies. Le sigh. I curse them, and the burrow they come from.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"Uh-huh... okay... yeah, well, you take care with that, bye," Sam cut the call.

"No takers?" queried Bobby.

"Not so far," Sam replied. "All the Hunters in the immediate to middle-distance area are dealing with other things." He frowned at one of the tablets. "It keeps getting people hurt, anyway. We really need to get someone in to do a definitive recon before somebody tackles it. We still don't even know exactly what it is!"

"I've been wonderin' about that," said Bobby. "And I've been wonderin' if the problem might be the people who've been going after it."

"How so?" asked Sam.

Before Bobby could answer, they heard the yelling, the screaming, the barking, and then the crashing. And then more yelling.

Sam dropped what he was doing and headed straight outside.

"Dean!" he yelled, "Dean! Was that you?"

In the yard, he was greeted by the sight of a downed ladder, his brother sprawling on the ground yodelling in pain, and a young woman with black eyes also screaming in pain. Dean was presumably in pain because he'd fallen from the ladder. The young demon was presumably screaming in pain because she was dripping wet with holy water, and also because old Shiloh had hold of one of her arms and was growling almost subsonically, her clouding old eyes glowing the red of stoked embers, whilst the pups darted in and out, yapping and barking, their little eyes crackling red, to bite at her legs.

"Balls," humphed Bobby.

Sam went straight to his brother, and out of long habit went into triage mode. "Leg," he said, running his eyes over his brother's prone form. "Shoulder?"

"I'm okay," grimaced Dean, "But it feels like the trick shoulder got banged good on landing. Thanks to that black-eyed bitch!" he shouted. "She pushed the ladder over!"

"I didn't touch him!" the demon yelled back, "He was reaching for the hole under the eaves, and the ladder was too far to the left, so he leaned, and he fell! I didn't get near him before this animal grabbed me! Owwwwww!" she wailed, as Shiloh adjusted her grip. "Let go, you stupid old thing!" She glared at Dean. "And he drenched me with holy water! OWWWWWW! You little bastards! Stop that! Call them off!"

"Old don't mean harmless," grinned Bobby. "That applies to Hunters, and their dogs."

"Serves you right for pushing over my ladder, you fucking bitch!" yelled Dean.

"You fell off all by yourself, you stupid old bastard!" she shot back.

"I didn't! You pushed me!" Dean snapped.

"You did so, you doddering pensioner!" the demon insisted. "And you didn't have to soak me with holy water, asshole!"

"I didn't fall!"

"You did!'

"I didn't"

"You did!'

"Didn't!"

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

"Did!"

"Shaddap!" ordered Bobby. The demon and Dean glowered at each other.

"Hold still, Dean," Sam instructed, grabbing out his cell to call an ambulance. "Bobby?"

"I'll deal with missy, here," Bobby assured him, "You just get some responsible adults to deal with your brother."

"Get this damned dog to let go of me, and I'll deal with him," hissed the demon-woman.

"Get me on my feet, Sam, and I'll send this piece of shit right back to Hell," Dean snarled back. "I haven't even started on you, you chunk of infernal rack scum!"

"Okay, children, playtime's over," Bobby instructed, gesturing to the demon. "Come on you, let's get out of sight."

Bobby supervised the dragging of the demon into one of the sheds and into the middle of a demon's trap, and left Shiloh watching her.

"Sit! Stay!" he ordered. "I'll be back."

"If you think leaving a geriatric old mutt to guard me..."

"I wasn't talkin' to the dog, asshole," Bobby snapped. "Now, you just shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down and stay the fuck put, and maybe I won't let her tear you right out of your meatsuit and chew on you until you're reduced to nothing but a particularly fragrant dog fart." He left her protesting indignantly at the way the puppies kept darting in to bite at her, and went back out to where Dean was still frothing at the mouth with indignant anger.

An ambulance duly arrived, and a pair of paramedics began their assessment of the patient.

"Sir, can you tell me what happened?" one of them asked Dean.

"He fell off the ladder, didn't you Dean?" prompted Sam.

"Only because that asshole pushed me!" snapped Dean unthinkingly.

"You were pushed?" the paramedic frowned.

_Imaginary friend_, mouthed Sam over Dean's head.

The paramedics duly confirmed Sam's diagnoses of broken leg and dislocated shoulder, and duly attempted futilely to get Dean to calm down. For his part, Dean duly continued to insist that he wasn't that badly hurt, and to rant angrily and duly threaten to kill that _bitch_ because goddammit she'd _pushed_ him, while the middle-aged EMT who radiated a megawatt I've Seen It All Before field calmly put an inflatable splint onto his leg, helped her colleague to wrangle him onto the stretcher, threatened him with sedation if he didn't calm down, then made a discreet jotting of GOM (for Grumpy Old Man) in the margins of the Patient Assessment, along with a note that a psych consult might not be a bad idea.

Bobby waved off the ambulance, with Sam following in the Impala, having extracted a promise from the younger Winchester to keep him updated. Once it was out of sight, he fetched a few things from the house, then went back to the shed. Shiloh was still staring menacingly at the demon, who was still swatting at the puppies, who continued to dart in and out, nipping at her legs.

Seeing Bobby with the demon-killing knife, she eyed it warily.

"What are you going to do?" she asked tentatively.

"What I'd really like to do is put this pig sticker between your ribs and watch you burn from the inside out," Bobby chortled, "But I'm keen to try to get your victim out of this alive. You just hang on in there, girl," he added, "So I'm gonna do the equivalent of send you to the Principal's office," he smiled grimly. He nicked his hand with the blade, and let a few drops of blood fall into the goblet he'd set on the bench.

He didn't have to wait long before his call was answered; there was a small 'whoosh' of displaced air.

"Bobby!" Crowley smiled, and the teacup poodle at his feet wagged her tail. "Long time, no summons! How long is it now? It must be five years?"

"It's six," Bobby informed him gruffly, before smiling and bending to pat the little poodle, who greeted him happily. "Hello, pup, how you doin'?" She kissed his hand lavishly.

Crowley sighed, apparently saddened by the fact that his dog had received a welcome so much warmer than the one extended to him. "It's such a shame when people can't find time in their busy lives to stay in touch. I'd love to drop in more frequently, just when I'm passing through, pop in to say hello, maybe bring you a bottle of something more respectable than the rotgut you drink," he waved the bottle of single malt he was carrying, "I still have hopes of educating your palate, Bobby, but there's the little matter of getting through those pesky wards, darling, if you could do something about them..."

"Oh, I will," Bobby assured him. "For a start, I'll be putting a bit more oomph into the ones along the west fenceline."

You look great," Crowley went on, "You are ageing well, love, like a robust red, or one of those cheeses with personality that the French are so fond of. You are a great big wonderful chunk of Roquefort in a hat, Bobby, complete with blue streaks! Maybe the rotgut is having remarkable preservative results." He peered around behind Bobby. "Where are your pets? Don't tell me they've got themselves silver inlaid walking sticks and consecrated wheelchairs and are still harassing the restless dead?" He stepped closer as Bobby opened the trap he'd been summoned into. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this long-overdue-yet-much-appreciated invitation?"

"You can thank madam there," Bobby growled, waving a hand at the demon, who looked as deflated as a student sent to the office to explain her conduct. Crowley frowned at her, and she wilted further.

"I didn't touch him!" she complained, "He fell off all by himself!"

"Dean was up a ladder," explained Bobby, "He claims she pushed it over."

"I DIDN'T!" whined the demon.

"But you were going to, weren't you, hmmmmmm?" Crowley prompted. "Come on, I know the way your demony little mind works, I am one, remember?" The she-demon looked suitably guilty. "So, what were you doing pushing Winchester the Elder..."

"I didn't," she muttered sullenly.

"All right, what were you doing, lurking, watching Winchester the Elder fall off his ladder?" Crowley finished.

The demon's meatsuit actually blushed. "It was... it was a dare," she mumbled.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow. "A dare?"

She nodded. "Some of the other new demons on my level," she went on shamefacedly, "They talked about the Winchesters, and there were these stories, and they were so far-fetched it was laughable, and, and, so they dared me to try to kill one, and..."

"And so you didn't want to look silly in front of your new friends," Crowley finished for her. "I'm so sorry, Bobby," he apologised to the old Hunter, "Youngsters, eh? Won't be told. We were never like that, were we? What are they teaching them these days? I'm quite sure," he turned back to the demon and bent a stern eye on her, "That the topic of the Winchesters would've been covered in your induction."

She looked guilty.

"And I am also quite sure that I mentioned it not three months ago, at the Departmental Meeting," he continued, "Which I'm sure you were at, since attendance is compulsory for all demons under the age of 100 Topside years, yes?"

She found something rivetingly interesting to look at on the ground.

"And it's a standing item on the weekly bulletin, which is sent to every address," he nodded, "And as a bright, eager young thing, fresh off the rack, I'm certain that you check your email at least weekly, don't you?"

She fidgeted uncomfortably.

Crowley sighed. "Kids today, Bobby," he lamented, "Kids today, they have no idea. No idea. None at all. It's very important, dear trembling little minion, to remember that there are various Infernal... contracts and arrangements in place," Crowley lectured the young demon. "And while they may seem peculiar, strange, incomprehensible or just stupid to you, they may be very important in the Grand Scheme Of Things, which is to say, MY Scheme Of Things, because as King of Hell, I put these things in place for a reason, yes?" The demon nodded warily. "Now, I don't expect you to understand, I just expect you to do what you're told. The embargo on trying to kill the Winchesters is in place because I say it is. That is all you need to know. You can be assured that there is method in the madness – at the very least it's an OH&S issue, because you're going to get yourself hurt – but you don't need to be appraised of the details..."

"By a strange twist of happenstance, Dean is the Dominican, Lord of the Hellhounds," Bobby cheerfully informed the demon, "And if a demon tries to kill him or his, he'll get annoyed, and he may summon the Alpha of the Infernal Pack to Hunt instead, and throw Hell's collection of wicked souls into chaos."

"Yes, well, as I said, you don't need to be appraised of the details," Crowley waved a hand dismissively as the demon's eyes widened, "The point here is, the point is, you have been a naughty demon, a very naughty demon, a very naughty demon indeed. And naughty demons must be punished, to teach them not to be naughty, and to set an example against naughtiness for other demons." Crowley paused and looked thoughtful. "So, for this act of naughty naughtiness, you will re-read the Standard Operating Procedures for you level, and for all Topside activities..."

The demon gasped in horror.

"...And spend the next Topside year as Litter Tray Monitor for my own dear companion, Gedda the Hellpoodle," he finished.

"No!" shrieked the she-demon, dropping to her knees with her eyes brimming, "Not the litter tray!"

"Yes, dear, the litter tray," Crowley confirmed. "You can start now. You might want to double glove, since Gedda has had a bit of a tummy upset recently, haven't you, poor thing?" He reached down to scratch the little Hellpoodle's ears. "I think she ate someone who disagreed with her..." With a casual wave of his hand, he sent the wailing demon smoking out of her meatsuit and back to Hell, presumably to begin her scatalogical duties.

"There really was no need to let that little piece of information out, Bobby," sighed Crowley a little reproachfully. "I have enough trouble keeping the Hierarchy of Hell out of my hair as it is. And the little devils, if you'll pardon the pun, do love to gossip. Honestly, I've been down to the lower Circles, it's worse than a hairdressing salon or a fashion workshop..."

"I'm sure you'll manage PR damage control, Your Majesty," Bobby answered dismissively, bending to check that the young woman the demon had possessed was indeed alive.

"So, now that we have that thoughtless little wretch out of the way, why don't you invite me in for a drink?" suggested Crowley, waving his bottle. "We have so much to catch up on. You can tell me all about Rocky and Bullwinkle and their slide into bickering senility. This is a particularly good Islay, Caol Ila, 25 years old, and while it's quite a peaty one, it's very smooth, and I think..."

"If I'd wanted to hear from an asshole, Crowley, I'd just have farted," Bobby snapped at him.

"Bobby, darling, you wound me," Crowley said in a hurt voice.

"Only in my dreams, and fatally," grunted Bobby. "While you're here, I need to know: do you have any asshat demons playin' merry hell, pardon my pun, in a retirement home north of here?"

Crowley looked thoughtful. "Let me check," he mused, pulling out a DPA and tapping at it. "Hmmmmm... I've got a few who've made deals. Quite good pickings, places like that – the reality of death concentrates the mind wonderfully once the arthritis fairy comes to visit, 'Depend' becomes a brand name and not just a verb, and people realise that they're not going to live forever after all. For those who've sipped life in their prime must gulp it down at closing time..."

"I'm not interested in your business model," Bobby growled.

"All right, all right, patience, love... no, none of mine," the King of Hell replied, "Whatever it is, it's not demonic."

Bobby grunted an acknowledgement. "Fine. You can go now."

Crowley looked surprised. "Bobby..."

"Don't let the door hit your ass on your way out," the old Hunter added, turning to leave the shed.

"Wait! Wait!" yelped Crowley. "Bobby, we haven't seen each other for six years, mate!" He waved the bottle of whisky like a lion tamer waving a chair at a particularly grumpy lion. "Wouldn't you at least like a drink?"

Bobby considered that. "I would," he conceded. "So leave the bottle."

"But I wanted to talk to you!" Crowley burst out, "Please Bobby!"

Bobby pulled up an old folding chair, and sat down heavily. "Fine," he snapped, "So talk. Quickly."

Crowley put on his most winning smile. "Bobby, you're not getting any younger," he began.

"Agin' at the rate of one day, per day, like everybody else," Bobby nodded. "So?"

"Well, what I'm getting at, is, well, you know," Crowley gestured vaguely, "The arthritis fairy, Depend, it doesn't have to be like that..."

"No," Bobby told him firmly.

"You haven't even heard my offer!" Crowley said hurriedly. "You could have another twenty, twenty-five years, with the health of an eighty-year-old, a seventy-year-old, you could just tell people that it was all that healthy living..."

"No," repeated Bobby.

"I'm getting to the good bit!" Crowley insisted, "I don't want you on the racks, Bobby, I want you on the Board! Senior Exec Management! I could use your help!" His voice turned pleading. "You have no idea what they're like, Bobby, no idea. Demons are so, so, so... recalcitrant!"

"Really?" Bobby raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.

"They're unreasonable, they're archaic, they refuse to get with the program!" Crowley told him. "And there is absolutely no management talent Down There! Not that I can trust, anyway. But you, you have talent, Bobby, you can multitask, you don't take crap from anybody, and you have job relevant experience, and your corporate knowledge is extensive..."

"No," Bobby said again.

"It's not like you'd have to wear a suit," Crowley wheedled, "Every day can be Casual Friday! I can make peaked caps part of the uniform!"

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" scoffed Bobby. "No!"

"I'm desperate, Bobby," Crowley said wistfully, "I'm surrounded by fools, morons, bullies and self-absorbed egotists who can't see past the end of the next private feud, they have no idea about running a business, and no vision beyond their own immediate interests, they drive me mad and I have nobody to confide in, it's lonely at the top..."

"I'm gonna count to three," warned Bobby, getting up and lifting a shotgun from behind a work bench, "Then I'm gonna test out some of my Anti-Demon Mark XXII rounds on you."

"I just want somebody to talk to!" cried Crowley, "I admit it! I get lonely! They're all idiots! I enjoy your company Bobby, love, and I desperately want to wean you off that kerosene masquerading as liquor and that's going to take longer than the rest of your mortal life!"

Bobby cocked the gun.

"I still have that photo on an old phone, you know!" squeaked Crowley.

"Three!" yelled Bobby, pulling the trigger.

Crowley vanished in a wailing cloud of expanding black smoke.

Bobby looked down at Gedda the Hellpoodle. "Go on," he told her, "He's had his feelings hurt. Go console him." She wagged her tail and woofed happily, then disappeared.

Bobby shook his head. Idjits. The idjits were everywhere. And he had confirmation that idjitry was not confined to the mortal plane – an idjit was running Hell. And a species of well-meaning idjit was running Heaven. Wherever he went after death, he thought glumly, he'd probably end up having to sort it out himself, because chances were, there would be idjits in charge. Some days, it was tempting just to go with the flow, put his shorts on his head, and head to the nearest cat shelter to stock up.

With that suitably gloomy thought, he headed back to the house to wait for news from Sam.

* * *

Reviews are the Ride With The Winchester Of Your Choice in the Ambulance Of Life!*

*There isn't much room on one of those stretchers, so you'll have to squeeze up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"So, how is he?" asked Bobby, when Sam came to fetch him.

"Unimpressed, uncooperative and unrepentant," Sam replied, "By the time we got to the hospital, he'd stopped swearing, and started trying to hit on the paramedic. In Emergency, they put his shoulder back in, and decided to use internal fixation on his leg. So, he started swearing again, and told them just to put a cast on it, get him some crutches, and let him go. Then, the anaesthesiologist came to see him, and he forgot aaaaaall about the paramedic, and started trying to hit on her instead. He made several 'sleep with you' comments. It was a blessed relief when she gave him the pre-med."

"Sure sounds like Dean," grinned Bobby.

"It's a reasonably straightforward fracture, the physician said," Sam explained, "But he'll be off it for six weeks, possibly longer. Bodies in their sixties don't heal up like they did in their twenties and thirties."

"Tell me about it," griped Bobby. "The whole damned thing starts rust, seize or wear out. It's all most vexin'."

They managed to get large lounge seats in a family consultation room, rather than the rock hard stone cold plastic ones in the waiting area ("Those things are a crime against ass," declared Bobby, "Invented by guys with shares in a haemorrhoid ointment company," and Sam had to agree) after Bobby used his dear doddering old man act on one of the receptionists, blinking rheumily and shuffling along and calling her 'Dear' in a quavering voice.

"He'll have to do physio," Sam went on, as they waited for news. "And hydrotherapy is highly recommended for recovery from this sort of thing, at this age."

"I want to be there to see his face when he's told that," Bobby smiled again, "Only not within throwin' range of unsecured objects."

Finally, an impossibly young doctor, who introduced himself as the orthopaedics registrar and looked about seventeen years old, came to tell them that yes, Dean had come through the surgery just fine, and they could see him briefly, but they shouldn't expect too much, because he was on some fairly heavy duty painkillers and still recovering from the anaesthetic.

A middle-aged nurse was checking Dean's IV port when they entered his room. Dean looked up at her, slightly cross-eyed, and blinked slowly.

"Am I related to you?" he asked her plaintively, confusion clouding his face.

"No, Mr Winchester," she replied patiently, "I work here on the nursing staff."

"Good," he suddenly grinned sunnily, "Because your calculator is totally giraffe!"

"He's all yours," she smiled as she left.

"Thanks," muttered Bobby.

Sam pulled a chair up to Dean's bedside. "Hey, bro," he began, thinking on how he'd always hated seeing his brother in a hospital bed, "How you doing?"

"I'm purple, Sam!" Dean told him. "My leg has daisies, but I'm purple."

"That's... good to hear," nodded Sam.

"She's not folded," Dean went on, waving his hand unsteadily after the nurse, "Because of the doughnut. It swam through the mail, going whoop whoop whoop!"

"So, the doc says you'll be laid up for a while," Sam said.

Dean nodded seriously. "It's the warthogs," he said, clumsily pointing to his leg, "They left their wallets behind, and now it's oscillating." He looked thoughtful. "And that makes the potatoes go Turkish on Wednesdays, every time, every damned time."

"Yeah, well, you gotta oscillate here for a few days," Sam tried again, "So just be a good patient, and concentrate on healing up."

Dean sighed deeply. "I wish those staplers would just get married," he announced, "The suspense is killing me. The singing desktops plagued the rescue effort."

"Uh, okay," Sam said dubiously.

"Just don't put pepper on the skateboard," cautioned Dean, "The mulberries will snore at the fleas until the flowerpots go boing. And we don't want that. I remember the last time the flowerpots went boing."

"Well, we'll make sure it doesn't happen," Sam reassured him.

"Cheese!" Dean burst out, looking worried. "Cheese! With dolphin guitars!"

"Why don't you try to get some sleep, Dean?" suggested Sam, "Just, you know, enjoy the good stuff, and get some rest."

Dean considered that, then smiled contentedly, yawned hugely, and closed his eyes. After a moment, they cracked open again. "Sam?" he said plaintively.

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam answered.

Dean fixed him with his most wistful, lost expression. "Bring me some Turkish potatoes on Wednesday?"

"Sure thing," Sam smiled, and, reassured, Dean smiled too, then went to sleep.

Bobby chuckled. "I guess he's gonna be okay," he commented as they headed back to the Impala, "He's makin' about as much sense as he ever does."

"I talked to the doc," Sam sighed, "Dean will have to stay in for a while, then if he's up to it and they're satisfied that we can take care of him, they'll let him out." He looked guilty. "He's a total pain in the ass when he's laid up like this. I may end up finishing what the demon started."

"Possibly not," grinned Bobby, "Because I've been thinking about that retirement home job. We may be able to use this."

"How?" asked Sam, perplexed.

"Think about it," Bobby continued, "Four Hunters have gone in after the job, and have ended up getting hurt. Why do you think that is?"

Sam paused. "Well, because they screwed up," he answered, "Because whatever it was got wise to them, and fought back."

"And how did it get wise to them?" prompted Bobby.

"It worked out that they were Hunters," Sam replied, "Because of what they did, because of how they looked..."

"Exactly!" Bobby almost cackled again. "Because they didn't fit in! Sam, the oldest who went into that job in a retirement home was thirty! Young, healthy and fit, they stuck out like sore thumbs."

"So, what are you proposing?" Sam looked confused. "You... you can't be suggesting that we send Dean, like this, on a Hunt?"

"Nope," Bobby grinned winningly, "Better than that. I am suggesting that we put Dean into care."

**...oooOOOooo... ...oooOOOooo... ...oooOOOooo... ...oooOOOooo... ...oooOOOooo...**

"Here's your Turkish potatoes," Sam told his brother, offering the bag.

Dean seized on it eagerly. "Ohhhh, pie!" he hummed with a mixture of desperation and delight, "I take back everything I've ever said about your hair, mostly..." Sam manoeuvred it onto the bed table, and put down the plastic fork for his brother, who dived immediately into the proffered pastry. "Ohhhh, that is so good," Dean hummed contentedly, "The food here is awful. You gotta bust me out, guys."

"What's the matter?" Sam grinned, "No hot nurse to give you your bed bath?"

"Oh, the nurse," Dean sighed glumly, "Mid forties, works out, smart, funny, eyes like Audrey Hepburn, lips like Marilyn Monroe, the most beautiful hands, plays the piano..."

"So what's the problem?" asked Bobby. "Happily married?"

"Engaged, actually," Dean sighed. "But it doesn't matter, because Tristan really isn't my type... Don't laugh!" he griped, "You gotta get me outta here!"

"Well, the thing is, the doc says you can't go home unless we can look after you," Bobby told him, "And unfortunately, three old guys batching it together doesn't count as a suitable home care environment."

"WHAT?" Dean's eyes bugged. "You assholes! Don't you dare leave me here!"

"The staff don't think we can look after you at home, Dean," Sam confirmed.

"Yes you can! Just lie!" Dean suggested promptly, "We've done it before, do it again!"

"Calm down, ya idjit," Bobby humphed at him. "We got a plan."

Bobby elaborated on the scheme he and Sam had cooked up.

"I'm too young to go into a retirement home!" Dean protested.

"Not as a recovering patient," Sam pointed out, "You can go in as a temporary resident, while Bobby goes in as dear, doddering old Uncle Robert, who can't live alone while his nephews are away working, and I show up as a Living Assistant."

Dean's face blanched. "Oh, God, no, Sam," he moaned in horror, "You can't do that! Taking one-hundred-year-old ladies to the shower, not cool, dude." His face became thoughtful. "Although, given the sad and sorry state of your sex life, maybe you gotta take it where you can get it..."

"No, no, it's just like being an extra pair of able-bodied hands, like with helping with transport, and some activities, and fetching stuff," Sam assured him, "It used to be called 'porter', but that didn't sound fancy enough."

"So, you could be, like, my gopher?" Dean asked, a smile breaking out on his face. "My personal slave?"

"No, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, "It doesn't work like that."

"Because I like the sound of that!" Dean said. "Hey, Sam, fetch my slippers! Get me coffee! Tote dat barge, lift dat bale, now wheel me out to the pool where I can watch the ladies do their aquarobics, go get me a beer! Now, peel me another grape!"

"I'm not going to stand around peeling grapes for you, Dean..."

"Nope," Dean agreed, "You'll peel the grapes first, then stand around and fan me. With a big feather fan. Until such time as we can find a hot lady to do it. You don't have to wear a bikini for fanning duty," he added in a tone suggesting that even he was amazed by his own generosity.

"Gee, thanks," huffed Sam, with a lavish helping of _Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean)_

"Well, we got a plan, let's go," said Dean, throwing back the bedclothes.

"Not so fast," Bobby forestalled him, "That grade schooler who calls himself your attending physician says that you really need to stay here for a few days so that they can make sure you're properly on the mend."

"Screw that," Dean grumped, "I'm outta here. Get me the AMA form."

"Uh, you can't do that," Sam informed him.

"Watch me," Dean smirked.

"No, seriously, son, you can't do that," Bobby backed Sam. "Not until you've had your psych evaluation, anyway."

"My... _what_?" Dean glared at them.

"Well, you're an ageing man, Dean," Sam pointed out, "The paramedics suggested that you be checked for symptoms of dementia. You know, hallucinations, delusions, irrationality, sudden outbursts of intense emotion, anything like that."

"I don't have any symptoms like that!" Dean yapped angrily.

"Well, you were shouting at your, uh, imaginary friend, when they picked you up," Sam pointed out.

"Imaginary friend?" Dean echoed, nonplussed. "Imaginary friend?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "The one who pushed you off the ladder."

A fucking _demon _pushed me off the ladder!" Dean yelled at his brother.

"Right, right," Sam nodded judiciously, "So, when the psych comes along to check you out, I suggest that you tell him or her that it was a demon, because, hey, that sounds so much more rational than an imaginary friend."

"Hmmmm, I dunno," Bobby mused thoughtfully, "A demon could be a delusion, suggesting that he's tryin' to make sense of the reality around him, even if his attempt is irrational, whereas an imaginary friend, that's hallucinatin', and suggests that he's losin' touch with reality altogether..."

"_I don't have an imaginary friend!_" snapped Dean. "I can only wish that I was hallucinating, because then somebody might come along and give me pills that would make you two assholes disappear!"

"Emotionally labile, with irritation and aggression," noted Sam.

"Definitely irrational," agreed Bobby.

"Could be the onset of Alzheimers," postulated Sam.

"Korsakoff's can't be ruled out, given his history," opined Bobby.

"I hate you both so much," fumed Dean. "If you won't break me out, at least go get me something resembling coffee, bitch."

**...oooOOOooo... ...oooOOOooo... ...oooOOOooo... ...oooOOOooo... ...oooOOOooo...**

Several days later, after Dean and Bobby's accommodation had been arranged and Dean had convinced the psych that he was actually tenaciously hanging onto the vast majority of his marbles, he sat in his wheelchair by the Impala, imparting last-minute instructions to the young Hunter who was going to watch the yard and care for the dogs while the usual residents were on the job.

"She's weaned them, but they still like to den with her," he told the younger guy, "They haven't all got the firestarting pee thing under control, so keep an eye on Halford if he gets excited..."

"Are you still teachin' him to suck eggs?" demanded Sam, putting a final bag into the trunk of the car.

"Just nod and pretend to listen, RJ," suggested Bobby, patting Rumsfeld goodbye, "It's what we do."

"They eat three times a day," Dean didn't answer, glaring at them instead, "Keep an eye on Hendrix, she's a bully at dinner time, and Hetfield bolts his food then throws up if you don't watch him...""

"Will do," nodded RJ.

"They've worked out the through-solid-objects thing, so keep an eye on that, Hammett still gets stuck sometimes..."

"I have had a little experience with Winchester dogs, you know," RJ reminded him smilingly, reaching down to pat the dog who leaned against him, "Right, Zep?"

"But not as much as me, so pay attention, smartass," Dean replied, "Now, the wards along the west fence have just been renewed, don't forget to check the salt lines every night..."

"And don't answer the door to strangers, and don't run with scissors," RJ added.

Dean glared at him. "I am not too old to lay you out flat, youngster," he growled.

"Nope," RJ grinned smugly, "But right now, you are too damaged."

"Give it up, Dean," Sam chuckled, "He's married to a werewolf, you're not going to scare him."

"Where is your good lady, anyway?" asked Bobby. "I hoped she might come with you, bring the munchkins."

"She's with her mom," RJ became serious. "She's worried about her. So am I."

Dean's face softened. "How's she doing?" he asked quietly.

RJ smiled sadly. "She misses him," he replied simply, "I mean, we both do. Sabine misses her Dad, and I miss Andrew too, he was a great father-in-law, but Ronnie..."

"They were pair-bonded," sighed Bobby. "More than thirty years."

"She goes out at night," RJ told them, "She spends more time on four legs than two. Sabine worries that she'll go out one night, and not come back. It happens, when one of a mated pair dies. But she's better when the twins are around."

"How are they doin'?" asked Bobby eagerly.

"Oh, God," sighed RJ, "They're teething. With extreme prejudice. Ian's canines popped out in front of the nurse last time he was being weighed, all four of them – the poor woman had to go and lie down, convinced she was seeing things – and Sam is getting through Zep's chew toys faster than he is."

"That's why other people's kids are so great," Bobby chortled, "Because when they get to be too much, you can give 'em back." He eyed the Winchesters. "Not that it ever worked with you two, your Dad just kept leavin' you here."

"We'd better head out," Sam consulted his watch, "They're expecting us."

"There's written instructions for their routine on the kitchen table," Dean issued final orders as he was manoeuvred into the back seat of the Impala.

"Yeah, I know," RJ replied, "And Bobby showed me where all the food is kept, and Sam's given me a list of Hunters needing ID backup."

"Don't let Shiloh and Merc have too much bacon at breakfast," Dean ordered, "They're old ladies, and can't put on any extra weight."

"I know," RJ reiterated.

"If that asshole Crowley shows his face, shoot him with the Mark XXII rounds..."

"I will," RJ rolled his eyes, "I have done this before, you know."

"Just be careful," Dean insisted, "You've got our contacts, keep us informed if anything happens..."

"Nothing will happen!" RJ said with exasperation, "Just go take care of this job."

"I mean it," Dean frowned, "You have any problems, questions, you call."

"Daaaaaaaad!" whined RJ, with all the mortified embarrassment of a teenager being seen in public with one of the 'rents, "I got it covered! I'm not a four year old!"

"We trust you, kid," Bobby grinned, "Even if we can't take our eyes offa him." He jerked a thumb back at Dean.

"Just don't let him hit on any nurses outside of an appropriate age bracket," RJ begged, "The last thing I need is a baby brother or sister."

"Will do," Sam promised grinningly, as Dean let out a shout of outrage from the back.

RJ waved goodbye to his father, uncle and practically-grandfather as the Impala pulled out of the yard, and Zeppelin woofed farewell. They were going to head into the house, but there was a sudden din of yipping, and the puppies did their through-the-fence trick, and came bounding and tumbling towards them to say hello.

He grinned as the cute little balls of fluff reacquainted themselves with their sire, then began to stalk his tail, his paws and his ears. For his part, Zeppelin put up with it with amazing patience, rassling with the litter, although his expression suggested that he might like to be rescued from his offspring at some point.

RJ laughed, and decided that they could sit outside and enjoy the pups in the sunshine for a little while. Then a mournful yowl drew his attention.

He smiled, and went to help Hammett all the way through the fence so he could join in the game.

* * *

Lemmy, Lars and Lita lived and worked as mortal dogs, and all went to Wait about 20 years ago, but Gedda, being a working Hellhound (even if she's a Hell-Teacup-Poodle) and bred much closer to the original stock whence Hellhounds derived, and who spends most of her time in Hell with Crowley, doesn't age like a dog who lives a mortal life. Chevy is probably still leader of the Infernal Pack, too. It's just the way of things in the Jimiverse. There are probably quite a few of Jimi Senior's descendants running with him in Doggy Heaven at this point, driving poor Denariel, Guardian of Companions, to distraction. I wouldn't be surprised in the least if they still cause the occasional diplomatic incident with other pantheons.

Reviews are the Adorable Puppies Galumphing Happily Towards You Soliciting Rassling With The Chew Toy Of Life!


	5. Chapter 5

NO. NO. NO NO NO NO NO. I am NOT going to write about how Dean came to be a father. You wanted a Winchester Happily Ever After complete with next generation, so you got one. I cannot write the romancey-schmancey stuff, and I'm not going to try. 'Dean Meets His Soulmate And Breeds' fics inevitably annoy the hell out of me (possibly because some of them are such blatant self-insertions, with inexplicably long and detailed descriptions of what she looks like and what she wears when it has absolutely no bearing at all on what passes for the story). And kidfics usually annoy the hell out of me too, for some reason. Use your imaginations. She was probably a Hunter. She's probably dead now, the usual fate for any human woman who crosses paths with the Winchesters more than once (and that's even without The Curse Of The Samdick Of Death). It wasn't Jo. There was ABSOLUTELY NO MPREG INVOLVEMENT. In the Jimiverse, Castiel summed it up: "There are no such things as assbabies, Dean."

RJ is Robert John, for anyone who hadn't figured out those blatantly obvious initials. ;-). His possible existence, and that of his sons, was hinted at in another Jimiverse story. And I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if they called him Bobbyjohn when he was little; no doubt, once he was old enough to know about That Sort Of Thing, he figured out pretty quickly that he didn't want that shortened to 'BJ', and so insisted on 'RJ' instead.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Road trips were nothing new to the Winchesters, or to Bobby, for that matter. They had all spent hours on the road, at all hours of the day or night, sometimes crossing several states and stopping only to refuel vehicle and humans alike. However, it had been quite some time since any of them had done a trip like this, and even since Dean and Sam had spent any time trapped in the car with each other.

There had been many occasions on which Sam had driven the Impala with his injured big brother in the back seat. If Dean was damaged to the extent that he had to be in the back seat, that usually indicated that it was serious. (The only times the older of the Winchesters would abandon his post behind the wheel of his Baby was if he was making out, bleeding out, or passing out.) On those occasions, Sam was driving fast towards the nearest source of medical aid, and Dean was quiet either through unconsciousness or bloody-minded stoicism.

This was different, though. Dean was injured but on the mend, and awake and aware, and unhappy at being relegated to the back seat, and he didn't care who knew it. In fact, he wanted to make sure that everybody knew it.

"How's she travelling, Sam?" he asked again, "How's her oil pressure?"

"It's fine, Dean," Sam told him through gritted teeth.

"How do you know?" demanded Dean immediately, "You didn't even look!"

"I did!" Sam retaliated, "I did look! Just like I looked the last time you asked, and the previous time, and the time before that?"

"She isn't running too hot, is she?" Dean went on. "I was going to flush her radiator this week."

Sam sighed, not terribly discreetly. "She's out of the red," he told his brother.

"Where out of the red?" asked Dean.

"What do you mean, 'Where out of the red'?" Sam queried incredulously. "Out of the red is out of the red! She's running within a normal temperature range!"

"Yeah, but is it normal for her?" asked Dean. "How far across the gauge is the needle?"

"Dean..."

"She could be running a fever, and you'd never even notice."

"Dean..."

"Did you hear that?" Dean asked suddenly. "Was that a shudder? Did you feel a shudder through the wheel, Sam."

"No," Sam grated out, "But I get a shudder every time you open your mouth."

"There was a shudder through her front end!" Dean insisted. "Bobby, put a hand on the wheel, is there any chatter in the steering?"

"The only chatter I'm detectin' is comin' from you, boy," Bobby growled, "So how about you just unbunch your panties, and sit down and shut up?"

Dean subsided, but only briefly. "Hey," he whacked the back of the seat with his good arm, "Put some music on."

Muttering fratricidally, Sam tapped at the small panel that Dean had begrudgingly installed when his stash of blank cassettes ran out, and it became apparent that nobody on the planet was manufacturing magnetic media anymore. Dean groaned as the opening track began.

"What the fuck is this?" he complained, banging the seat again. "What is it with you, and music to slit your wrists by? Are you trying to drive me to gnaw through my own radial artery in a final, desperate bid to escape the relentless torture?"

"It's a band called The Denizens," Sam told him, "This is their latest album, 'Get In The Van'. It's kinda cool."

"Cool? Cool? Sam, this type of crap is only cool after it's been killed and spent several months in an unmarked grave," scoffed Dean. "You tell him, Bobby, we're not going to listen to this all the way to Bumfuck, Somestate!"

"Actually, it's kind of melodic," shrugged Bobby.

"Shut up, you're clearly senile," Dean snapped. "Put on something classical."

Sam did a double take. "Classical?" he echoed in disbelief.

Dean nodded. "I downloaded Motorhead's last album a few weeks ago," he confirmed, "Put that on."

"What?" Sam nearly shrieked. "Dean, Motorhead is _not_ classical! It's the antithesis of classical! Anyway, that can't be possible – that guy with the warts has to be dead by now!"

Nuh-uh, most of him's still alive," grinned Dean, "And even dead, the noise of the gases emanating from his decomposing body escaping from his casket would sound better than this crap."

"Driver picks the music, shotgun – and backseat – shuts his cakehole," Sam grinned smugly.

"It's crap, Sam!" Dean protested, banging on the seat again, "It's crap! I never made you listen to crap!"

"But you did make me listen to loud, tuneless noise," claimed Sam, "So, suck it up. And stop that!"

Dean continued to complain until distracted by a sign announcing a roadside caravan ahead. "Doughnuts!" he yelled at the top of his voice, "I want doughnuts!"

"You were right, Dean," Bobby humphed as Sam sighed and eased the car off the road, "You aint old enough to go into a retirement care. We should be putting you in kindergarten."

Placated by a bag of hot greasy deliciousness and a chocolate milkshake, Dean subsided somewhat. Sam had asked for double chocolate syrup and double ice cream in it, which made Dean happy, then Bobby had dropped a little something that he'd brought along for such emergencies, which made Dean sleepy, so that after finishing his snack, he yawned, and settled in for a nap, snoring gently and twitching occasionally.

"It's like being on the road with a dog, again," observed Bobby, "I wonder if he chases rabbits in his sleep?"

"Rabbits no, but Playboy bunnies, almost certainly," commented Sam. "Oh, gross," he wrinkled his nose, "At least when the dogs, er, 'relax' in the back seat, Hellhound bloodline flatulence smells like lavender." He scowled at his brother in the mirror. "And he threatens to feed me charcoal biscuits," he added under his breath.

It was a drive of several hours, which went considerably more quietly once Dean was asleep. He woke up about half an hour before they reached their destination, and so had half an hour more to complain about Sam's taste in music.

They stopped at a small diner to have dinner before checking in, and Dean ordered a steak with all the trimmings, then managed to cadge a second piece of apricot pie (with cream and ice-cream) from the pleasantly plump older lady who was their waitress by telling her wistfully that it was his last meal as a free man before his family abandoned him at a retirement home.

"You're supposed to be watching your intake of saturated fat," Sam cautioned him as he dug into his pie, "And you've already eaten two servings of fries."

"It'll tide me over while I'm being fed gruel and weak tea," Dean humphed. "And I don't want to fade away to nothing. Skinny is not an attractive look. Nobody wants a sofa that's not plush and luxurious and generously upholstered, am I right, May?" he gave their waitress an expression that was unmistakably The Killer Smile, and she blushed and smiled as she left their table.

"You are incorrigible," moaned Sam.

"Nope, I'm just hungry," Dean smirked, digging into his second dessert. "And there's nothing wrong with enjoying the scenery."

"You're not going into a prison, Dean!" Sam berated his brother, who watched the waitress's retreating backside with appreciation, "This place is at the higher end of the market, for retirement residences."

"What, gruel piped directly to my cell, hot and cold running bedpans, that sort of thing?" his big brother enquired."

"It looked civilised enough on the website," shrugged Bobby, "And the sample menu included bacon at the breakfast table. And o' course, I can't see you complaining too much about strange wimmen followin' you into the shower."

"Well, you're only here for long enough for us to work out what's causing the deaths," Sam reminded them.

"That could take some doing," mused Bobby, "There doesn't seem to be anything connecting them, not that I can see."

"Me either," agreed Sam, taking out his tablet and tapping at it. "Some of them definitely qualify as 'strange' – the finance officer found bled out in the rhododendrons, for example, and the orderly found with his heart torn out through his sternum – but there are others that could pass as just ordinary, if extremely unlikely and unfortunate accidents, like the kitchen hand who ate himself to death on leftovers one night..."

"Ate himself to death?" queried Dean, "How do you eat yourself to death?"

"You eat so much that your stomach ruptures," Sam answered. "Then, there was the male orderly who developed necrosis of the penis..."

"AAAARGH!" Dean's eyes went wide in horror. "Don't you DARE tell me it's possible to SEX yourself to death, Sam! I don't want to know, bro!"

"...Not exactly," Sam qualified, giving his brother a quick shot of Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "He, er, apparently, uh, well, the coroner concluded that extensive self-pleasuring led to gangrene, which was the cause of death."

"Well, slap my ass and call me Shirley," said Bobby, sounding mildly surprised, "Ma was right after all – if you play with it, it will drop off."

"On top of that, the building is supposed to have been haunted, from when it was a hospital, before it was even renovated to become the current facility," Sam told them, "But ghosts, even really angry ones, pick a single MO, something that reflects the circumstances of their life or their death, and stick with it. This, it's all over the place."

"Well, we'll be able to poke around more effectively as residents, and make pleasant conversation with staff members," Bobby affirmed, "And, since Dean and I will be there full time, we'll be in a position to watch out for anything suspicious that might happen to staff."

"Just don't turn up to work wearing a red shirt, Sam," frowned Dean, "Under no circumstances are you to troll yourself as bait for this thing, whatever it is, unless we've planned it, and we're there to back you up, you hear me?"

"Yes, Mother," Sam rolled his eyes.

"It's important that we don't give away that we're Hunters," Bobby reminded them, "Remember what's happened to the previous ones who've tackled this job. So, we gotta be discreet." He frowned at Dean. "That means you, mister."

"Me?" Dean looked and sounded hurt. "I am discreet!"

"Yeah," muttered Sam, "As discreet as a stripper at a funeral."

"I am totally discreet!" Dean insisted. "I can be as discreet as anybody! Discreet is my middle name! And, I TOTALLY want strippers at my funeral."

"Right, right," nodded Sam sagely. "Discreet. Discreet Dean. Discreet Dean, the man who once stood up in the middle of a vegetarian restaurant and bellowed "Who do I have to kill to get a bacon cheeseburger in this joint?". Discreet Dean, the man who once rode a dirtbike across the stage in the middle of a performance of 'La Bohème', yelling "The fat chick dies at the end!". Discreet Dean, the man who once had what I can only call 'intimate relations' with a young lady, whilst wearing nothing but a beautiful smile, in a glass-fronted full-length shop window, then passed it off as an avant garde piece of performance art, and took bows and collected tips afterwards, and would've obliged his adoring audience with an encore if I hadn't dragged you out of there..."

"It was the best way to draw out the ghost of that crazed militant vegan," Dean defended snippily, "The opera stunt drew the immediate attention of the angry spirit of the theatre director who had a pathological hatred of people who behave disruptively during performances, and, well, it was a beautiful natural act, and The Living Sex God cannot be held responsible if people respond positively and generously to the uplifting and aesthetically pleasing manner in which he undertakes such acts..."

"Disgustin'ly public lewd acts notwithstandin', it's important that we don't do anything to tip our hand," Bobby interrupted. "To which end, I will be the dear doddering old man who's slightly crotchety and fiercely protective of what remains of his independence, you Dean will be the currently disabled but engaging man sliding charmingly into his golden years, while Sam will be a diligent and courteous Living Assistant who treats the residents with respect whilst keepin' his eyes and ears open."

"And peeling my grapes," added Dean.

"I'm not peeling you any fucking fruit," Sam griped.

"So much for courteous and respectful," sniffed Dean, "I shall bring your appalling conduct to the attention of management, Samuel Francis, if you don't improve your behaviour I'm afraid there will be no place for you here at... what is this place called again?"

"Twilight Towers," answered Sam promptly.

"Oh, God," groaned Dean, "Why do these places have such cheesy names? Why not just call it Waiting-To-Die Waystation? Last Legs Lodge? Push-Up-Daisies Palace? The Dump-'Em Den? Pop-Your-Clogs Place? Bite-The-Dust Building? Kick-The-Bucket Condo?"

"Look on the bright side, Sam," Bobby consoled the wincing younger Winchester, "With one leg broken and his arm in a sling, at least he can't get up to much in the way of inappropriate shenanigans."

"Are you kidding?" beamed Dean, "There was this time, once, after a Hunt had gone south, I had one knee in a Zimmer splint, and one wrist in a cast, but I'd met this really hot chick the night before and we had a date, anyway, she was a human movement therapist who'd done some work with disabled clients, right, so after she got my clothes, off, what she got me to do was..."

"Fuck my life," moaned Sam, thinking that if he was really, really lucky, whatever-it-was that they were Hunting might take pity on him and poison his brother's gruel.

* * *

I'm always a bit worried about trying to juggle two plot bunnies at once - that way, madness may lie - but these two seem to be some sort of package deal for the moment. Conjoined bunnies? Let's hope they don't breed like that. But as long as The Denizens keep feeding them and they keep nibbling on my ears (and they are the only things that do, these days, since my husband bought Mass Effect 3 and the dogs have a new tug toy), I'll try to keep them both humoured.

Meanwhile, Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Being As Discreet As You Want In The Shopfront Window Of Life!*

*If the shop happens to be a confectioner's, try not to grind the marshmallow into the carpet, it attracts ants.


	6. Chapter 6

Well, now the 'Lady Of A Certain Age' is more or less stomped (except for the Special Bonus Feature Deleted Scene that the discerning Denizens demand - le sigh - which I shall attempt to write once I can dislodge Real Life's very pointy teeth from my leg), hopefully this one will whisper a little more loudly. Reviews only encourage the damned thing...

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"Good morning, Mr Winchester!" chirped a voice that had no business sound so pathologically cheerful at that hour of the morning. "Would you like a..."

Dean might have been officially qualified as a grumpy old man, but he was a Hunter. At the merest hint of possible threat, his body would reach for the weapon that had been under his pillow every night since he was seven, and be ready for action without having to wait for his brain to wake up completely. He had once gutted an intruding shapeshifter without waking up at all; it had silently broken into their room whilst both Winchesters were asleep, and Dean was enjoying a particularly pleasant dream about a particularly flexible and particularly imaginative young lady. It was therefore somewhat discombobulating for Sam when he woke early in the morning to find his brother in a romantic clinch with a dead shapeshifter, murmuring sweet nothings in its ear. (Not discombobulating enough to stop him taking a picture before waking his brother, but discombobulating nonetheless).

The point was, Dean was a Hunter, who if disturbed unexpectedly could go from Sound Asleep to I Will Buttfuck Your Soul in 0.003 of a second. So when the unexpected and ludicrously happy voice announced itself, then before his brain was awake, his body was already prepared to dish out ruthless, efficient and instant death with his trusty...

Wooden spoon.

"Wsflg?" commented Dean, blinking at the utensil in his hand. While his brain tried to come to terms with the fact that his knife had transmogrified into a wooden spoon, his eyes took in the pleasantly smiling middle-aged woman in a crisp light blue uniform.

"Would you like a coffee?" she repeated, indicating the small trolley laden with mugs and a pot that was wafting the delicious scent of one of the Five Food Groups According To Dean (the others being Bacon, Booze, Cheeseburger and Grease). "I'm Annabelle, I usually do the java run first thing in the morning. Your brother said that you refuse to function, or in some cases speak in any language known to humankind, before your first cup of the day." She moved to open the curtains. "I can get you something else if you prefer, tea, or chocolate. Mr Shufflebottom is quite fond of beetroot juice, although Mr Shufflebottom is a little... eccentric in a number of his habits..."

"Smglrmf?" went Dean, waving the spoon.

"The night staff put that there for you," she told him in a friendly tone, "Your brother told us that you can't sleep without a 'weapon' to hand."

Blrgmumf?" went Dean.

"If the wooden spoon is not satisfactory, I can get you something else, a spatula perhaps," she told him equably. "Mr Shufflebottom likes to have a dishmop. But then, I did already mention that Mr Shufflebottom is a little eccentric..."

"A wooden spoon?" Dean finally found some actual words, "You gave me a wooden spoon?"

"Of course," Annabelle kept smiling. "We wish to accommodate our residents' needs as best we can, without compromising the safety of others. So, in the interests of letting you feel safe..." she gestured to the spoon.

"A wooden spoon is supposed to make me feel safe?" he asked incredulously.

She nodded. "You are not the only resident with a military background, Mr Winchester," she explained, "We recognize that the trauma of active service can leave people, even an army cook such as yourself, with certain coping mechanisms that we may not be in a position to understand, but we want you to feel safe, and at home here. They also serve who man the kitchen! I certainly understand that. There are days when, having wrestled with the sump filter of the dishwasher, Mr Winchester, I feel as though I deserve some sort of citation." Her tone became conspiratorial. "It's probably not something you're allowed to talk about, but your brother told us what you did to that infiltrating terrorist patrol with an egg whisk. We were in awe! You are truly one of our country's living treasures, Mr Winchester!"

"Where's my knife?" demanded Dean, making a mental note to get the details of The Egg Whisk Offensive out of Sam, using deployment of The Wooden Spoon Of Big Brotherdom if necessary.

"It will be held for you at the nurses' station until you leave," Annabelle told him, still smiling. "Coffee?"

Dean subsided with as small a huff as he could manage, remembering that he was supposed to be an easygoing resident staying for a few weeks until he was healed up enough to look after himself again. Besides, he could lift his knife from a bunch of nurses anytime he wanted, if it became necessary. He changed tack. "I'm sorry, Annabelle," he apologised, smiling back, "You just startled me, is all. Coffee would be great."

She poured him a mug. "Since you arrived so late last night, we'll show you around today," she told him, "After breakfast. We'll get one of the assistants to wheel you to the dining room, to show you the way. Ah, here's Mandy."

"Good morning," smiled another pleasant middle-aged lady, this one in a nurse's uniform, who pushed a small metal cart into the room. "I'm Mandy, and I'm on the med rounds today. Or as some of them call it, the lolly trolley." She checked her chart, then inspected Dean's leg brace. "How is your pain level this morning, Mr Winchester? How is your leg feeling? Any numbness, or irritation?"

"The thing irritating me is the fact that my leg is busted, and I'm stuck in this stupid brace," he sighed dramatically, and she laughed.

"Well, you're allowed to have it off, and have a shower, if you'd like," she announced, inspecting his notes again.

"Oh, darlin', I'd love to have it off and have a shower with you," he grinned, eyeing her generous proportions appreciatively, "Especially if you offer to wash my back."

"Oh, you!" Mandy laughed. "No, I'm afraid that I'm on the lolly trolley, but if you like, I can ask Kim to help you. Provided you don't mind having a younger nurse give you a hand; some of our residents are a bit uncomfortable with that."

"Oh, I think I can handle it," Dean tried not to smirk too hard, "After all, I'm the guy who did the thing with the egg whisk."

"I'll arrange it right away, for as soon as you've finished your coffee," promised Mandy. "Incidentally, Kim is also studying therapeutic massage, and if you have any aching in your leg, well, just offer to be a practice subject."

"I might do that," Dean nodded, trying to throttle down the Killer Smile a bit.

Nurse Mandy was as good as her word. Dean had barely finished his nectar of the gods when Nurse Kim arrived, and assisted Dean in a friendly and professional manner, including a thorough shower, with back washing, and a foot massage for his broken leg.

All in all, Dean thought philosophically, Nurse Kim was just as nice a guy as Nurse Tristan had been.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Matron Schultz was old school in every way: she had trained as a nurse Back In The Days when learning was done mostly on the ward, usually up to one's elbows in bedpans and kidney dishes, student nurses learned their trade not by wrestling with essays but by wrestling with uncooperative patients, nurses were addressed as 'Sister' and wore recognisable headdresses and were at once terrified of and inspired to be just like Matron. She retained her professional title partly out of recognition of her seniority and experience, and partly because management were not game to try to change it.

She was what Bobby might, under other circumstances, have referred to as 'a fine figure of a woman', which would be a polite way of saying that she was a formidable older lady with a ramrod posture, a baseball-sized grey bun (that some less charitable residents told each other had been permanently nailed there like that probably when she was about seventeen), a truly magnificent bosom and a face that could stare down a rabid gorilla (in fact, during her rotation on the psych ward when she was in her second year as a student nurse, had she stared down a patient who would probably have frightened a rabid gorilla). She would have looked right at home carved on the prow of a 17th century British Navy warship.

Matron Schultz ran her wing of Twilight Towers with relentless efficiency, an iron fist in a sterile powder-free single-use glove. No aspect of her residents' wellbeing was beneath her notice: she kept tabs on what was happening in the kitchen and the laundry, the medical histories, the dining room, the rec room, the TV room and the garden. Figuratively speaking, she always had one wetted finger held aloft in the zeitgeist.

She knew about Mrs Robinson's little tiff with Mrs Onslow, about a magazine crossword being filled in. She knew about Mr Douglas's stash of alcoholic beverage (she let it slide because he was a grown man, provided he didn't become intoxicated enough to attempt to go regimental but forget to put on his kilt; adult autonomy was all very well, but civilised people did not behave like that). She knew about Mrs Green and Mr Baker's after-dark liaisons (mind you, _everybody_ knew about their after-dark liaisons, except for Mr Pickering, who took out his hearing aids at night). She knew about Mr Palmer and Mr Grey, and their simmering feud regarding the appropriate number of cookies one person could decently take at morning tea, and had been called to referee on a couple of occasions. (The verdict: two to start with, then after everybody had had two if they wanted them, the remainder were fair game to anyone who was still hungry, but distribution was to be settled by sharing them out fairly and equally and not via drawn walking sticks at five paces, because civilised people did not behave like that).

She had a number of nicknames by which some people referred to her – always out of her hearing, naturally. They included The Iron Maiden, Boss Witch, Thundergusset and, in the case of Mr Dorsch, either Die Walküre or Die Führerin, depending on whether he was admiring her figure or sulking about having his intake of lard-fried potato pancakes moderated due to his cholesterol problem. Another of her titles was Alpha Bitch. Perhaps she wouldn't have been insulted by that one; she presided over the wellbeing of her residents like a she-wolf watching over pups (or, according to Dr Blewitt the retired zoologist, an alligator watching over a creche of juveniles), always ready to pounce on any staff member or unwary Board member who did not come up to her exacting standards. (Or, according to Dr Blewitt, "Grab them and pull them under in a death roll until they drown, then she would drag their carcass back to her lair and stash it, under the desk possibly, leaving it there until it decomposed enough for her to be able to disarticulate it with her jaws, you can just see her doing that with someone, can't you? Of course, she might just smother them with that chest. That foundation garment is one serious feat of engineering, what do you think, cable suspension or box girder?...")

At the same time, she was of a generation that was not squeamish about practising tough love from time to time. Nobody had forgotten the incident in which Mr Zamilla (who had, in his younger years, wrestled as Zamilla the Gorilla) had One Of His Episodes after deciding to palm his medication. A situation that in any other ward would have required a by-the-ass-covering-book response of the summoning of the police, the notification of the Crisis Response Team, a minimum of four burly orderlies and a generous dose of sedative was quickly resolved when Matron marched into his room and insisted that he put that bottle down RIGHT NOW, Mr Zamilla, because CIVILISED PEOPLE do NOT behave like that. Mr Zamilla put down the bottle, took the proffered pills, and went back to calmly shuffling his dominoes (he might've been mildly demented, but that wasn't the same thing as suicidally stupid).

So when a resident proved immune to the usually considerable persuasive powers of the regular staff members, it was to the Alpha Bitch that they turned to set things right...

"Good morning, Mr Singer," she addressed her newest resident, who sat on his bed in his robe and a trucker's hat, in her most pleasant voice. "I am sorry that I didn't get to introduce myself when you arrived yesterday, as you came in so late. I am Matron Schultz. You may address me as 'Ms Schultz', although I prefer just Matron. I oversee the running of this wing, and it is my job to tend to the wellbeing of its residents and the supervision and direction of the staff."

"Good," griped Bobby grumpily, "Then you can just direct missy here to pay attention to me when I say I don't need no strange wimmen followin' me into the shower." He jerked a thumb at the middle-aged care assistant, who stood with the patient expression of someone who has Seen This All Before. "I'm quite capable of washin' myself, thank you very much."

"Melanie is a professionally qualified care assistant who is merely following protocol," explained Matron, "It is policy for staff to ensure that new arrivals are capable of performing daily self-care tasks for themselves to an adequate standard. You would be surprised, Mr Singer, just how many older men have decided that getting a bit wet then wiping off the grime on the towels constitutes 'bathing', and civilised people do not behave like that."

"Well, she can check behind my ears when I come out," Bobby insisted, gesturing querulously with his walking stick.

"Mr Singer, Melanie will not assist you if you are capable of doing it yourself," Matron went on with implacable, relentlessly calm logic. "And once it is clear that you can do so, there will be no need for..."

"I don't need no strange wimmen watchin' me, either!" barked Bobby, "What's she supposed to do, give me a mark out of ten? Do I get extra points for doin' somersaults?"

"Mr Singer," Matron said firmly, "It is absolutely necessary, for your welfare and your safety, that we establish that you can do this for yourself! For a man of your age..."

"A man of my age?" yapped Bobby irritably. "Hah! I'll have you know, Mrs Schultz..."

"Ms!" Matron corrected him instantly.

"Ms, sorry," Bobby conceded, "That figures, o' course, if you were a Mrs, I bet you'd eat your husband after mating..."

Melanie the care assistant drew in a sharp breath. Matron's face didn't change at all. Instead, without taking her eyes off Bobby, she held out her hand to Melanie for the apron, and said in a voice reminiscent of Darth Vader drawing a bead on Luke Skywalker's X-wing fighter,

"I'll deal with this one myself."

* * *

Hesta-Cheryl has been supplying aged care stories (and my own encounter with the genre when my grandmother finally went into care with dementia has also supplied me with some) so if you read something that you think is too far-fetched to be plausible, you can blame her, because some of the stuff that goes on you couldn't make it up...

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Requiring Supervision During Ablutions In The Bathroom Of Life! (You shameless leches...)


	7. Chapter 7

The title of 'Matron' lapsed as a title in hospitals several decades ago, which gives you an idea of just how long ago Ms Shultz did her training. I think she probably resembles Hattie Jacques's protrayal of Matron in _Carry On Matron_, only with the face of Danny Trejo or Mickey Rourke grafted on...

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"Come in!" called a distracted voice when Sam knocked on the door. He did, to be greeted by the sight of a gracefully greying lady around his own age who was peering with some agitation at a notepad, tapping at a tablet and speaking to her phone. She waved at him to take a seat, as she spoke.

"Honestly, Ted, you're made of sterner stuff than this!" she wheedled, "We're already two people down here... but she does that to everybody, Ted, she's a sweet old lady really, she doesn't mean anything by it... Ted, are you sure you aren't exaggerating? It was only custard!... No, no, I'm just saying that... Really? Oh, dear... I distinctly remember warning you specifically about the likely consequences of doing anything to interrupt Bingo, so that was kind of self-inflicted... But that was some sort of bizarre random act of weirdness, Ted, it's not as if... Ted, the recreation room is not haunted. No, neither is the laundry. Come on, you can't do this to me..." a click indicated that whoever Ted was, he had hung up. She sighed, and looked up at him, managing to find a welcoming smile. "Hello," she began, "I'm sorry about that. What can I do for you?"

"Er, I'm Sam Winchester," he explained holding out a hand, "I'm supposed to start today, temping as a porter? Well, I believe the politically correct term is Living Assistant, but..."

She rushed around the desk, and seized his hand with an inarticulate cry of joy. "Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, "I'm so sorry, I almost forgot! I'm Georgina. Georgina Harding. Coordinator of Non-Medical Staff. But everybody calls me George, so I can't promise you that I'll answer if you use Georgina." She deflated somewhat. "I'm so glad you're here," she told him, "As you heard, one of my Gofers just quit..."

"Gofers?" echoed Sam.

"Oh, that's what the residents call us," she smiled and waved a hand airily, "It's their little joke. Because we gofer the things they can't reach, or lift, or get to. We have plenty of older folks in this wing, so they'll keep you busy, I can promise you."

"Well, I've only just arrived, so I'm not going anywhere in a hurry," Sam reassured her.

"Wonderful! So, we'll find you a shirt, I'm pretty sure we'll have some that fit you, otherwise you look okay, although I suggest you give your shoes a bit of a clean before you meet Matron Schultz. You're probably safe for now though," she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial hush, "Because apparently this morning she's had her hands full with a new resident who refused to have a care assistant accompany him to the shower..."

"Oh, er, nothing too serious, I hope," commented Sam, having a horrible suspicion about who the disruptive new boy was.

"Well, we don't know exactly what happened," George went on, "But there was reportedly also some... robust discussion about the wearing of hats indoors, particularly in the dining room at meal times."

"Well, some older people can be quite, you know, set in their ways," smiled Sam, hoping that Bobby hadn't happened to anybody.

George sorted through a cupboard and found him some dark blue shirts with the Twilight Towers logo on them, then produced a labeller and made him a name tag in large lettering. It had a large, slightly manic-looking cartoon gopher on it. "There you go," she said, "Although some of them will just ignore your name, and call you whoever they want you to be at the time."

"As long as it's not 'Francis', I think I'll cope," he grinned, as George checked her watch.

"We've got a bit of time before they finish up at breakfast," she told him, "So we can whip around and make some beds, then I can show you the layout of the place before we go and help some of them back. If you don't mind being thrown in the deep end, I might ask you to help Knitting Circle this morning."

"Knitting Circle?" queried Sam.

"Oh, yes, many of the ladies here are ferocious knitters and crocheters," she informed him, "They knit for their children, their grandchildren, and members of staff. They knit everything from blankets for homeless hostels to beanies for premature babies. Mrs Hoogenraad specialises in coats that go to a shelter for retired racing greyhounds awaiting adoption as pets. And Miss Stapleton crocheted a most attractive slip cover for her nephew's motorcycle."

"I can't knit," Sam admitted.

"Oh, you don't have to," George laughed, "But you will be busy. You just have to keep the tea and cookies coming, pick up any yarn or needles they drop, and help some of the less mobile ones with their wheelchairs. Sometimes they like to have someone read a novel to them while they knit, so you can do that for them."

"Just like wealthy ancient Romans," grinned Sam. "I can do that."

"You'll have a nurse on call, of course," George went on, "And a female care assistant with be with you at all times to act as chaperone, and maintain a sense of propriety."

Sam nodded in understanding. That made sense, he thought; they were elderly ladies, who might feel uncomfortable having a male porter hanging around - a female chaperone would reassure them that they were safe and that his actions were purely professional.

"Excellent! Well, come on, let's make a start on the beds. We'll start with Mrs Hennessy's room. We'll have to give the sheets a good shake-out; she likes to eat cookies in bed, and she usually leaves enough crumbs to make a cheesecake base the size of a football field..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

All but the most frail of residents took their meals in the dining room, and those who were able to were encouraged to fetch their own breakfasts, so Dean brushed aside the help of an assistant and put his tray across his knees, filling his plate with his usual preferred assortment of artery-clogging food, including some sort of fried potato hash brown-like thing that smelled absolutely delicious. Having foraged for supplies, he rolled himself to the nearest table, where a group of men were already eating. He recognised a couple of them as being from his own wing.

"So, they new boy emerges," drawled one of them, reaching for the pepper.

"You're not the one who had a shower with Thundergusset, are you?" grinned another.

"Nah," said a third dismissively, "That guy was older."

"Well, I'd have to meet this Thundergusset before I decided whether I want to shower with her," he grinned, offering a hand. "Dean Winchester."

"Ian Robertson," the first guy shook his hand, then the others introduced themselves.

"Who exactly is Thundergusset?" Dean asked, digging into his pile of bacon.

"Ah, Die Walkure," sighed Rudolph Dorsch, who was apparently in an admiration phase. "Matron Schultz. A most remarkable woman."

"You'll know her if you see her," grinned Ian, "If a bust that defies the most advanced technical feats of structural engineering walks past, with a face like an annoyed brick above it, that's her just behind it."

"So," asked another man who'd introduced himself as Mike Atherton, "What are you in for, Dean?"

"Four to six weeks, for Stupidity Unbecoming," Dean replied, "But my sentence may be extended depending on how well behaved my leg is." The men nodded glumly – at their age, they were all too familiar with the vagaries of an ageing body trying to heal after any sort of injury.

"So, what do you guys do for fun around here?" asked Dean.

"Oh, there are many enjoyable and engaging activities and excursions run for residents of Twilight Towers," announced Ian chirpily as the others groaned, "There's a Chess Club, a Croquet Club, a Book Club, a Golf Club, the Film Society, the Gardening Club..."

"Somebody in management pays him to do that, I swear," Rudolph rolled his eyes.

"The rest of the time," Mike smiled, "I like to do what any guy likes to do." He turned in his seat, and caught the eye of a group of ladies a couple of tables away. He waved his napkin at them, and winked. They returned his attention with some gestures that Dean was not used to seeing made by ladies of that age.

"It's Wednesday," Ian pointed out, "So later this morning, we like to go join the Birdwatching Club."

"Birdwatching?" Dean echoed in disbelief.

"Oh, ja," nodded Rudolph, "You should join us. You have binoculars?"

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," suggested Mike. "It's more fun than the Drama Group."

"You were in the Drama Group last year," Ian pointed out.

"Only because they were staging 'Lady Godiva', and he auditioned to be Peeping Tom," added Rudolph archly.

"And Maisie Hawkins was magnificent in the title roll," Mike sighed happily. "She was an exotic danseuse in her youth. You should've seen her interpretation."

"Everybody's seen her 'interpretation'," Ian rolled his eyes, "She has gymnomania, according to the staff. A pathological compulsion to get naked."

"Yeah, but is her 'interpretation' worth seeing?" grinned Dean.

"Come join the Birdwatching Club, and decide for yourself," Mike grinned back cryptically. "She can still put her ankles behind her head, you know..."

"Okaaaay, that right there is too much information," grumped Ian.

"Well, I guess you guys are the experts," Dean shrugged. He turned back to his breakfast, then noticed that Rudolph was gazing wistfully at the pile of potato pancakes on his plate.

"Are you going to eat all of those?" asked his tablemate plaintively, "Only, Die Walkure, she tells the catering staff that I am not to have too many. My cholesterol..."

"Just keep your cholesterol levels secret if you can if they're at all elevated," sighed Ian, "Or they'll start 'moderating' you, too. God, there's something fundamentally wrong about putting a limit on bacon..."

"Oh, now that's not right, rationing a man's breakfast," declared Dean, "That has to constitute abuse, doesn't it?"

"It's supposedly for 'our own good'," Mike griped, "They use phrases like 'quality of life'. Who wants 'quality of life' if it's just more years to live without hash browns?"

"Wait a minute," Dean told them in a determined voice, backing up and wheeling back to the serving bench. He was back a minute later, with a plate holding potato pancakes, fried eggs, and more bacon. "We all gotta die of something," he stated firmly, dividing the forbidden foodstuffs amongst the others, as they murmured their thanks. "Now this," he brandished a rasher of bacon, "This, is quality of life."

"To quality of life," said Mike, raising a rasher of his own.

"Quality of life," toasted Rudolph, raising a piece of potato pancake.

"It can go screw itself," finished Mike with a wave of his fork.

They chowed down in satisfaction, then Ian spoke again. "So," he began, reaching for his juice, "The thing about you and the egg whisk – is it true?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Matron watched as Mr Singer jammed his hat back onto his neatly combed hair, then took his walking stick and followed one of the assistants, who was taking a resident using a walking frame to the dining room. She gave him a smile, and he offered a half-hearted glower in return.

His initial reluctance to have 'strange wimmen' assist him in the shower was not unexpected, and something that many residents initially shared. It could be terribly confronting to realise that maybe you could actually use some help with something as basic a washing yourself. He would be perfectly capable of doing it by himself from now on, as he had kept asserting stridently through the entire process. Well, except for the bit where she sat him on the shower chair and washed his hair with a brisk and thorough scalp massage; she was gracious enough in victory not to point out that he was practically purring by the time she'd finished...

She had been clear in her disapproval about his wearing of his hat indoors, and especially to meals, because civilised people did not behave like that, but she had been in the job for long enough to recognise that it was important to choose one's battles, and not sweat the small stuff. Mr Singer wearing a hat indoors was barely a 1.0 on the Richter Scale of things requiring her attention, she decided, as a care assistant came scuttling up to her and breathlessly relayed that Miss Hawkins was apparently determined to reprise her celebrated performance as Lady Godiva once more, declaring an intention to ride her scooter naked through the corridors until such time as the staff allowed her to eat as many pieces of chocolate cake as she wanted, and damn the diabetes (as she aged, Miss Hawkins had entertained with increasing ferocity the beliefs that glucose monitoring was all about making sure there was enough sugar in the tea, insulin was something worn by observant Muslim ladies and the Islets of Langerhans were an exclusive resort somewhere in the South Pacific).

Matron Schultz squared her shoulders, and set off for Miss Hawkins' room. She would make her notes in Mr Singer's file as soon as Miss Hawkins was decently covered. He was all right, she decided: it was the grumpy, crotchety ones determined to hang on to their independence as much as possible who always managed to stay the healthiest, and live life most contentedly.

Putting that thought on hold, she began to compose yet another firm explanation to Miss Hawkins about how civilised people did not behave like that.

* * *

Twenty-odd years ago, as a student, I was one of the authors of a glossy brochure touting the Islets of Langerhans (the bits of the pancreas that produce a number of hormones, including those governing blood sugar regulation) as a perfect holiday destination for students who were feeling stressed out by our rapidly approaching deadline for submission of Honours theses. This was before the days of the interwebs, of course, so we cut pictures out of various magazines, and typed up reviews of the five-star hotel, Pancreatic Place, with its luxuriantly appointed suites (also called the Alpha Cells). And drew palm trees. There was also coconut involvement. In our defence, I can only say that it had been a long year, and we were all quite tired and ready for it to be over...

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Cadging You Extra Bacon, Hash Browns Or Chocolate Cake From The Breakfast Trolley Of Life!


	8. Chapter 8

Is there anybody there? Well, I hope so. Onwards...

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Sam was retrieving linen from an upper shelf in a hallway cupboard when he heard the sound of wheels, followed by his brother's irate voice.

"Aha! There you are," barked Dean, "I've been looking for you. Been hiding from me, have you, Francis Christian Andersen? Writing a few more fairy tales? 'The Emeror's New Apron', perhaps? 'The Private And The Pea', maybe? 'The Little Corporal That Could'?"

"Andersen didn't write that one, it came from a sermon by Reverend Charles Wing," answered Sam, counting sheets, "I've been learning the routine with the head of non-medical staff, and shaking out the crumbs from Mrs Hennessy's sheets; I don't think she actually eats any of those cookies, I'm pretty sure she just drops them in the bed then rolls on them. Oh, speaking of that, I also have to get fresh linen for Mrs Green, she and Mr Baker were doing something unspeakable with quite a lot of chocolate last night, apparently..."

"That would explain the noise," nodded Dean, "But that's not what I was talking about, Blabbermouth." He brandished his wooden spoon. "Would you like to explain this to me?"

Sam turned, and eyed the utensil. "It's a wooden spoon," he replied. "From the kitchen," he elaborated. "You use it to stir things," he added helpfully.

"You can also use it to whack asshole little brothers," Dean growled and brandished the Spoon of Doom, "But what I meant was, what the hell was it doing under my pillow this morning?"

"The tooth fairy ran out of quarters?" suggested Sam with a bright smile. It quickly turned to a scowl when Dean whacked him on the leg with the spoon, eliciting a yelp and a Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!)

"Don't'be a smartass with me!" Dean hissed. "Just what the fuck did you tell these people about me? I was an Army cook? A _cook_, Sam? I am _so_ not the Steven Segal type, he was a smarmy dick with hair even worse than yours..."

"Well, I just knew you'd insist on having a weapon with you," Sam replied with a shot of Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk), "So I thought you'd better have some sort of a cover story. You're not the only one who has a thing about weaponry to hand after dark, so a military background seemed like the best and most plausible option."

"Right, right," nodded Dean grumpily, "So tell me, Sam, since you're the one with the intel on my enlisted exploits, what exactly _did _I do to those terrorists with that egg whisk?"

"Just tell anybody who asks that it was classified, or that it's too traumatising to think about," Sam waved a hand dismissively, "Make something up! You the most inventive person I've ever known when it comes to making stuff up. Like your Chicks I Have Banged stories. At least half of them cannot possibly be true."

"They are all totally true!" protested Dean. "I've never made up one of those! The Living Sex God does not HAVE to make up those..."

"I call bullshit," Sam sniped, "That one where you claimed you did it up a tree, for instance..."

"That was totally true!" countered Dean. "She was an arborist, and she used climbing gear – had a real talent with ropes, that girl..."

"You cannot ask me to believe that the one about the Lincoln Tunnel is true," Sam went on accusingly.

"Completely," Dean affirmed, "With the Holland Tunnel for Round Two."

"And doing it on somebody's grave in Hollywood, that's farfetched, not to say completely weird, even for you," Sam informed him snippily.

"It was Ronnie James Dio's grave, Sam!" exclaimed Dean, "What better way to pay tribute to the Evil Elf of Metal?"

"So. what are you planning for this week then?" asked Sam tartly, with a well-practised Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual). "A little bit of mutually informed and consenting adult entertainment in the hydrotherapy pool? Seeing how many times you can do it on a mobility scooter while doing laps of the lounge? Oh, I know, what about the croquet lawn, that looks nice and flat..."

"Did that once," Dean beamed, "There was this girl who played competitively at a national level. It wasn't the first time for her, of course; it turns out, you can use the wickets to pin somebody's ankles, and..."

"Dean!" yelped Sam, "Seriously, I was hoping that you had something more constructive than grossing me out planned. We are meant to be on a job here!"

"As it happens, I've been busy blending in with the locals," Dean told him. "I'll be joining in with various activities, getting to know them, talking to them, and I'll see if I can winkle out any more information about the mysteriously dead employees of this place. For instance, later this morning, I will be joining the Birdwatching Club. Which reminds me, I gotta get the binoculars out of the car..."

"Birdwatching Club?" gawped Sam. "The Birdwatching Club? As in, people who go outdoors, and watch birds?"

"The very same," nodded Dean, "My new peer group recommend it highly. Don't look at me like that – it's a very wholesome activity, it gets people out in the fresh air, walking around, or rolling as the case may be, and socialising, all the things that The Powers That Be are always saying we golden oldies should make a point of doing."

"Well, okay then, I'll get the binoculars for you," Sam subsided somewhat, looking at his watch, "I'll just drop this linen off, then I have time for that before Knitting Circle."

"Oh, so you're going to be doing a social activity too?" grinned Dean.

"No, jerk," Sam sniffed in disdain, "I'll be assisting the ladies who like to get together to knit, fetching them stuff, picking up anything they drop, maybe do some reading, keeping them supplied with tea and cookies, that sort of thing."

"Sounds like exciting stuff," Dean leered, "Just you and a roomful of ladies..."

"There will be a female care assistant present, as chaperone," Sam continued, "So that none of them feel uncomfortable with the presence of a man."

"Really? Well, that sounds very... decorous," smiled Dean as he rolled away. "You keep those ladies amused, then, Sasquatch. Peel their grapes diligently!"

Sam wondered if it would be considered unsporting to head back to George's office and look for thumbtacks to use as caltrops.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The moment he heard the screaming from the nurse's station, Bobby headed that way with surprising speed for his age, looking for anything that he could use as a weapon.

When he arrived, a twenty-something nurse, was standing on a chair and screaming, whilst a forty-something nurse wielded a broom at something under the desk.

"What is it? What is it?" he demanded, taking the broom from the nurse and peering into the dark recess to see what was lurking there. "What did you see?"

"A monster!" shrieked the older woman, "There's a monster in the duct!"

"I knew it!" wailed the younger one, "I've been telling people there's something going on here! We hear it at night! It moves in the walls! It's been there for months! Nobody would believe me, but it's there!"

"You two go get the other staff out," Bobby ordered with quiet authority, pulling a flashlight off the charger on the wall and grabbing a small fire extinguisher, "And any residents. You get 'em all to the rec room, and you don't let anybody back in, you hear me?"

The older woman pointed under the desk. "But... the monster..."

"You let me deal with this," he told them grimly, stiffly getting to his knees and wishing he had something more than a light source and some fire-retardant chemical, "Now you go get everybody out!"

As they scrambled to obey, he crawled awkwardly under the desk, muttering about how he was getting too old to do this sort of crap, and pointed the flashlight through the duct grating. It was difficult to see, but something had clearly disturbed the dust and accumulated detritus. Swearing under his breath, he worried at the grate fittings until they popped free, then removed it, cautiously poking his head into the dusty space.

"Mr Singer, is that you?" asked a brisk voice behind him, causing him to jump and whack his head against the sill of the duct.

"Ow! Balls," he griped, wincing, "Yeah, Matron it's me."

"Language, Mr Singer! What on earth are you doing down there, man?" she demanded.

"Matron, I don't have time to give you a full briefing," he snapped back, "But there's somethin' in here, it scared the hell out of your nurses, and there's a chance that it's somethin' really nasty, so I'd be obliged if you'd just head for the... what the hell are you doing?" his tone became querulous, as Matron crawled under the desk beside him.

"What seems to be the problem, Mr Singer?" she asked, peering into the dark duct.

"Did you hear me?" Bobby said, "It could be somethin' nasty in there! Now you just high-tail your fanny back to the..."

"Mr Singer, language! Give me the flashlight," she took it from him as he let out an outraged squawk. "Mr Singer," she told him, "This is an old building. It settles, it creaks, it groans, in much the same way as many of its residents. It also, from time to time, acquires unwanted visitors. Much like some of our residents, I'm sorry to say – I only wish that Mr Grigory would be inspired to stand closer to the soap more frequently without reminding..."

"Matron, I don't think you understand exactly how nasty this could be," Bobby growled at her. "I have had quite a bit of experience in dealin' with... this sort of thing..."

Matron looked confused. "There was no record in your notes of a background in pest control," she mused, "Otherwise I'd have asked for a neuropathy screen for you..."

"Well, I do," he gruffed at her, "And I'd be much obliged if you'd go join the others in the rec room while I deal with it."

"Garbage." she sniffed. "If I hold the flashlight for you, you will be better able to see what's there." Her expression was one that brooked no argument, so he kept his mutinous mutterings to a minimum, and peered once more into the dusty, echoing space, poking with his walking stick in the small pool of light.

It was dark. It was musty. It was still. There was a definite smell, an acrid, sharp odour, so faint that most people wouldn't even have noticed it...

"Does that beam adjust at all?" he asked, "Can you make it wider?" Matron obligingly fiddled with the flashlight, making the pool of light larger. "Yeah, wider, that's better. There's somethin' been here, all right, there's marks in the dust..."

A flash of movement caught his eye, then something moved almost too fast for him to follow...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby hadn't been the only one who'd heard the scream. As soon as Dean heard the sound, then found the gaggle of staff and residents making their way to the recreation room, he turned and headed in that direction, grabbing the arm of a distressed-looking nurse who muttered something about a monster in the walls before a workmate moved to comfort her.

"But Matron and Mr Singer are still there!" she wailed.

Cursing his lack of a weapon, he headed back the way everyone else had come.

He had no idea what he was looking for, so he tried to be quiet, the creaking of his wheelchair sounding loud in the stillness. Then he heard the voices...

"God's tits, there's something in here!"

"Language, Mr Singer! And I did warn you."

Dean quietly rolled around the nurses' station. Two voices, along with a certain amount of panting, grunting and muffled thumping, were coming from under the desk.

"Don't language me, woman, make it wider! I need it wider!"

"I've been fiddling with it for the last five minutes, and this is as wide as it will go."

"It's... damn, I'm not long enough!"

"Use your stick, man!"

There was some more muffled thumping.

"Mr Singer? What are you doing in there?"

"I think I'm stuck."

"Oh, well, you wouldn't be the first one who's got stuck down there. Just a moment. It is quite an old, awkward aperture."

Eyes bugging and imagination racing, Dean rolled around the desk.

"All right, all right, do I need to get a bucket of cold water, or..."

He was just in time to see Matron, on hands and knees, extracting Bobby from a ventilation duct by the back of his trousers. They both carefully stood up, Bobby delicately clutching a rather startled-looking Scarlet King Snake.

"Er, I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" Dean grinned hugely.

"Not at all, Mr Winchester," Matron smiled, "Mr Singer has been an enormous help, rescuing this creature from the duct. The poor thing must be terrified."

"Bobby or the snake?" asked Dean brightly, as Bobby glared daggers at him.

"Thank you, Mr Singer," Matron said gratefully. "I'm sure the staff will be much relieved to know that the 'monster' has been removed. I'll just take him outside, shall I?"

"Er, there's no need for you to, uh," stuttered Bobby, as Matron removed the snake from his hands.

"Garbage. When I was newly qualified I did nursing in South America, Mr Singer. As the most junior staff member at the clinic, it was my job to remove the ground snakes from the cistern every morning. I had a pet one. Named him Firenzo. Well, until he laid eggs, then I had to change it to Firenza. Broke my heart to leave her behind when I returned home." As she spoke, the poor bewildered snake slithered up her uniform and disappeared down it. "Oh, Firenza used to do that," she said, gently patting her decolletage, "I suppose it's the warmth. Now, I shall just see you two to the rec room and give the all clear, then take this poor little fellow outside. I imagine there will be a certain amount of upset and uproar – I shall have the staff dispense tea and cookies."

They made their way back to the rec room.

"Don't you say a damned word," Bobby growled.

"Not a peep," beamed Dean.

And he didn't.

Well, not immediately, anyway. He waited a whole ten minutes before he recounted the conversation he'd heard verbatim or told anybody about how he found Matron with Bobby Singer's snake between her assets...

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice, At An Age Of Your Preference, Helping You To Deal With The Unexpected Inconvenient Reptiles Of Life![1]

Srsly, reviews make the bunny whisper. I'm feeling neglected. Probably because I'm usually so spoiled. Is Real Life kicking everybody in the arse? Curse it! *shakes fist at RL* Srsly, I need halp with this little bastard; it's dictating bass-ackwards. I've written the epilogue. How daft is that? The sooner the bunny is inspired to finish this story, the sooner we get to it!

[1]Who or what snuggles between your assets is up to you, depraved Denizens.


	9. Chapter 9

Oh, RL has been a pain: the plot bunny stopped whispering and started nibbling on my 'puter instead, which scared all the electrons; they got on their megacycles and rode away, which resulted in my laptop having some sort of nervous fit (I thought that a 'bad sector' meant a piece of citrus fruit with a bit of mould on one bit), the file for this chapter becoming corrupted (getting it back – mostly – was an exercise akin to retrieving a coin through a drain grate with a piece of gum on the end of a bent stick), and the oven fritzing out. I'm pretty sure they're all related. Oh, and I cannot, CANNOT, for the life of me, refit the rubber boot properly around the headlight globe of the Flying Teapot. It's all most vexing. If I was just allowed to slap somebody stupid...

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Sam spent the next couple of hours with George, taking care of the morning's housekeeping, then she introduced him to a care assistant named Angela.

"Angie will show you to Knitting Circle", George told him as they shook hands, "And youre in safe hands She's one of our most capable chaperones."

"Its great to have you on board," smiled Angie as they headed for the kitchen to arm themselves with the required supplies. "We seem to be perpetually short-staffed; attracting and keeping new starters is difficult."

"Is that because of the weird deaths?" asked Sam. "You know, the guy with his heart missing, and the guy with all his blood gone?"

"Oh, its terrible, isnt it?" confided Angie, "Some sort of terrible attacks on two of the admin staff members, but the authorities are at a total loss! And in a place where retired people live, too! What if its some sort of wild animal? If I lived here, Id be really worried about it, but theyre all so brave, not worried at all!"

"And a couple of suicides, too," prompted Sam, stacking plates on the trolley.

"You know, I'm not sure that they really were", mused Angie, carefully arranging cookies on a plate, "Intentional, I mean. The guy who ate himself to death? He was a man who liked his food. I mean, really really liked his food. It would've taken a hell of a lot to make his stomach rupture. Which is weird in any case. It should be physiologically impossible to eat yourself to death; when your stomach gets too full, you throw up, its one of the body's self-defence mechanisms. He must've had some disorder that interfered with that, a neuropathy, maybe."

"Well, I'm not planning on death by cookie anytime soon", he reassured her, "Or by any other, er, you know, unsavoury activity..."

"If you ask me, the other one was a fitting end," Angie told him, "There was something creepy about Roger. The Knitting Circle certainly didn't like him. One or two of them accused him of self-abuse, but we couldn't ever prove anything..."

"Well, people can be the weirdest animals", Sam commented, and she nodded her agreement.

"The Knitting Circle meet in one of the lounges", Angie informed him as they left the kitchen. "Really, all you have to do is keep the tea coming, keep the plates full, and maybe read for them, they like that. Oh, and don't mess with the stereo, or get involved in any dispute about it – there's a roster, and we've found its the best way to avoid any instances of drawn knitting needles at ten paces."

"I promise not to mess with anything I shouldn't," he smiled, pushing the trolley after her to a door where lively chatter leaked out and muffled music was audible, "But I'm glad that this establishment provides for a chaperone for the ladies, especially given the possible problem with Roger of course, I intend to behave completely professionally, and give you nothing to worry about..."

Angie gave him a knowing look as she pushed open the door. "Sam," she cocked an eyebrow, "Who told you I was here to chaperone them?"

It was a large light-filled room, with a selection of comfortable chairs and sofas, although some of the ladies sat in wheelchairs. They all appeared to be preoccupied with knitting and chatting, although two were enthusiastically singing along to Zeppelin's _Bron-Y-Aur Stomp_.

"Ladies!" Angie called, "Refreshments are here!"

The chatter ceased.

"Oh, good," announced one of the singing ladies sunnily, "I'll have a nice big piece of him, then!"

"Which piece do you think might be big?" asked another.

That was greeted with a certain number of groans, whoops and catcalls as Angie went on.

"Ladies," she continued, "This is Sam. He's just started as a Living Assistant, so play nice. No trying to scare off the new Gopher."

The ladies of the knitting circle called their greetings, and he heard several phrases, including "Hello, dear", "Nice to meet you", and "Fresh meat".

"Good morning, everyone," he smiled, and gave them a little wave, trying not to think about how he suddenly felt like a baby deer wearing a bacon jacket that had just pushed a trolley of liver into a wolves' den. "I'll, uh, try to learn everybody's tea and coffee preferences as soon as I can."

"If he asks 'Coffee, tea, or me?', I know what I'm going to pick", cackled one lady with evident satisfaction.

Another eyed him like an experienced butcher sizing up a prime carcass. "He's very... _big_, isn't he?" she announced. "Are you big everywhere, young man?"

"Er," Sam felt his face flush as Angie cut in.

"Now, ladies, what have we talked about before, regarding inappropriate comments?" she asked.

"That they're too much fun not to make!" supplied one lady cheerfully. "Oh, isn't he just adorable when he blushes?"

"Let's hope he lasts longer than some of the others", sighed one.

"He will, provided he behaves himself," another commented, not looking up from her knitting, "And you bunch of depraved beldames don't scare the boy to death. Now, what were you saying about Matron Schultz?"

"What?" The apparent informant appeared surprised. "Surely you heard about this morning. _Everybody's_ heard about this morning!"

"Matron and a new resident were discovered _in flagrante delicto_," another supplied, as others murmured knowingly. "Three sugars for me, Sam, dear. Oh, are you all right?" the elderly lady's tone turned concerned as the teapot rattled in his hands against the cup, spilling some.

"Er, I'm fine, thank you," he stuttered, quickly mopping up the spill.

"Are you telling me that woman actually has a _flagrante_, and that there exists on this Earth a man game enough to try to _delicto_ it?" asked the doubter suspiciously.

"I have it from a reliable witness," nodded the informant. "They were at it under one of the desks."

"Well, he works fast, is all I can say," sniffed another, sounding grudgingly impressed, "Arrived last night, and _delicting_ her _flagrante_ the next morning..."

"This isn't the first time they've met," intoned another lady, needles clacking, "He's an old flame of hers, apparently."

"He never is!" gasped the old dear beside her.

"Definitely," the first stated. "I have it from an impeccable source. They met during the first Gulf War – she was nursing, and she tended him after he was wounded by a rocket attack on a convoy..."

That's just what I heard," another added knowingly, "They fell for each other, then lost touch when they were both redeployed."

"They met up again in the second Gulf War," contributed another in a tone of certainty, "And I have it on best authority that when they did," her eyebrows did a remarkable Deanesque waggle, "They... rekindled their relationship."

"Well, that would certainly explain the blatant favouritism," opined another dowager as she crocheted ferociously, "Thundergusset didn't make a peep when he showed up at breakfast wearing his hat."

"She was probably too exhausted to protest after their little _encounter_ in the bathroom," another silver-haired old dear positively leered, "Sylvia said that the noises she heard from his room didn't leave much to the imagination."

"Is that so?" asked the ferocious crocheter casually. "What did she hear, then?"

"Well, she said that there was a lot of banging, and a certain amount of thumping," was the reply, "And she swears, absolutely _swears_, that she heard him say, 'Give me a mark out of ten', but then she dropped the glass she had against the wall, and didn't get any details after that."

"What a pity it wasn't Maria," sighed an intent listener, "The clarity she can get by jamming her hearing aid up against the wall, it's just amazing."

"Cookies?" squeaked Sam, amazed at the way that the Chinese Whispers of the rumour mill in this place managed to travel at the speed of salacious.

He continued to pour tea, distribute cookies and plate out pieces of cake as the details of the tragically disrupted relationship between the plucky Army nurse and the veteran war hero were divulged, discussed and dissected. The sheer volume of sweet foodstuffs they managed to ingest was nothing short of astonishing.

"Oh, finally," sighed one old dear in relief as the Led Zeppelin playlist finished, "I thought we'd never get to the end of it."

"Says you," griped another, "Don't think I'll ever vote for that Justine Bieber garbage you like so much. Somebody should slap her until she shuts up."

"It was Jus_tin_ Bieber," corrected the disliker of Zeppelin, "At least, the stuff we played last week was recorded before she had the surgery."

"Would've been the shortest sex change ever performed," cackled the Zeppelin fan.

"I think her voice was probably actually deeper afterwards," suggested a third.

There was a certain amount of bickering about the musical tastes of the Knitting Circles members, until one of them suggested it might be nice to have some reading. "Would you be up to it, Sam, dear?" she asked. "It would be better than listening to these crazy old cows complain about each other's musical tastes."

"I'd be happy to do that," nodded Sam eagerly, thinking that anything would have to be better than listening to a group of elderly ladies talk about an ageing pop princess's gender reassignment surgery. "I see you have a wide selection of actual books here," he went on, indicating the shelves. "Is there anything in particular you'd like? Oh, _Lord Of The Rings_ was always a favourite of mine, there's _Huckleberry Finn_ here, _The Princess Bride_ is really funny..."

"Actually, I have a new reader," one of the ladies announced, waving a late edition piece of hardware, "And my granddaughter helped me to transfer my favourites, and download a whole lot of new stuff!"

"That's great!" said Sam, taking the item and eyeing it appreciatively. "Oh, wow, you have some wonderful books here, _To Kill A Mockingbird_, _The Catcher In The Rye_, _The Count Of Monte Cristo_, _Frankenstein_, _Brave New World_, _Wuthering Heights_..."

"Do you have the one we were listening to? Can we pick that up again?" enquired a knitter, as several other ladies murmured their agreement. "The one set in historic England, about the young woman who wanted to be with the young man that her family adopted, but her brother didn't approve? It was terribly dramatic, and terribly romantic."

"Oh, yes," answered she of the brand new digital toy, "Just pick it up at the bookmark, Sam."

"Okay," he smiled, tapping at the screen a couple of times;_ Wuthering Heights_ and the work of the Bronte sisters hadn't been his favourite books, but in his limited experience, women often seemed to enjoy the tragic yet stalwart heroines that peopled their novels. He cleared his throat as the screen filled with text, and began to read.

"The second the door closed behind him, he was across the room, sweeping her into his arms. Their kiss was brutal, passionate, and everything she had dreamed of. His chest heaved as he deftly removed her bra with one hand, her nipples stiffening with desire as she felt the insistent stiffness of his hardening cock against her hip... _WHAT?_"

"That's the one," confirmed the story's requestor.

He looked up, eyes bugging in horror, to see the members of the Knitting Circle smiling and nodding encouragement.

"But... but..." Sam spluttered, checking the file, which came up as _The Master's Mistress_. "It's... this isn't _Wuthering Heights_! Oh God..."

"Of course not!" scoffed the tablet's owner, "Who has time for that whining fainting little emo who can't do anything more interesting than cry dramatically?"

"There's not even any heaving of her bosom," derided another. "And there's no nudity to speak of."

"I like the Black Sheets publisher's stories better than No-Pants Romance ones," declared her neighbour, "The sex scenes are much more interestingly described."

"Do keep going, Sam, you have a lovely reading voice," encouraged a smiling lady, as the others nodded eagerly.

His eyes darted around the room; he was trapped. Unwillingly, his gaze was drawn back to the awful text – there was definitely nudity to speak of. At length, in fact. The author was one of those writers of mass market erotica who had decided that the audience wasn't so much interested in the quality of the nudity if the quantity was sufficient.

Reminding himself that he was on a job, and that he'd heard worse in the Cage when Lucifer insisted on reading his love-letters from Hel out loud, he began to read, hoping that the blushing wouldn't set off the fire sprinklers.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Most of the clubs, societies and activities at Twilight Towers were organised and run by the residents. The Birdwatching Club was one of those. The gentleman who'd organised it and led the club's activities - nicknamed Professor Birdbrain so long ago that many of his fellow residents weren't exactly sure what his name actually was - had been a keen ornithologist all his life, having spent a lifetime in academia producing learned treatises on birdlife with an earnestness that had at times worried even his fellow professional nerds in the Zoology department. He was therefore thrilled when some of his irregular members showed up, and brought along a new person.

"Welcome, welcome!" he trilled, just like one of the objects of his fascination, "Always great to see a new face!"

"Well, this club comes highly recommended," smiled Dean, "So I couldn't resist."

"Excellent!" The Professor Birdbrain led his straggling party of would-be birdwatchers through the grounds, "It's a perfect day for seeking out some fine specimens!"

"Definitely the weather for it," agreed Mike, peering up at the blue sky.

They finally shuffled, rolled and limped to a halt on a rise in the gardens, surrounded by areas of shrubbery. "This spot is good because it is an elevated position, with a good view of the most of the surrounding grounds," intoned the Professor in the voice he had most likely used on at least three generations of undergraduates, "And now that the weather is warming up, we may expect to see certain species re-appearing. For example, if you will train your binoculars on that copse to our left..."

At Mike's nudging, Dean followed his indication to an irregular gap in the foliage.

"What happened there?" Dean asked.

"Oh, we spent a day with the Gardening Club," explained Ian cheerfully.

"Pruning Week," added Rudolph, lifting his own binoculars.

The Professor was right. The small hill gave an excellent view of most of the grounds. The gap in the foliage gave a better oversight of the lower gardens, the croquet lawn, and the pool.

Where the aquaerobics class were apparently taking advantage of the pleasant weather to do their class outside on such a nice day.

"Oh yeah," mused Dean, focusing, "A great spot for birdwatching."

"Now, at this time of the year, many species will be preparing to nest," the Professor went on, "During the colder months, while food has not been abundant, they will have done their best to maintain physical condition..."

"Some of them have definitely worked hard to maintain their physical condition," noted Mike, as the birdwatching group focused on the pool.

"Preparation to nest can manifest as colourful plumage for purposes of display..."

"Display, yeah," muttered Dean, noting a particularly plunging neckline. "That definitely counts as display."

"... And this may also involve... what have you found, Dean?" asked the Professor cheerfully.

Dean gave him a brilliant smile without dropping his binoculars. "Well, I'll need conformation from my fellow watchers here, but I'm pretty sure that I've spotted a pair of great tits."

"Ah, no, that's not possible," the Professor smiled indulgently, "Great Tits is not found in North America..."

"I beg to differ," grinned Mike.

"I think I've spotted a pair of dusky tits," announced Rudolph.

"No, Rudolph," the Professor shook his head, "You must be confusing them with..."

"I'd say those were striped tits," Ian noted, "She must've fallen asleep sunbathing too close to the railings of the balcony again..."

"No, no, _no_," the Professor started to sound annoyed, "The genus_ Melaniparus_ simply is not found in North America, gentlemen..."

"Oh, oh, oh, guys! Guys! Look!" Ian nudged his co-watchers. "Look! Carolina's tits!"

"Look, the terminology for _Poecile carolinensis_ is the Carolina Chickadee," the Professor said snippily as they all muttered in appreciation at a very brief bikini.

"Call me a sad old man," sighed Rudolph, "But there's something just inexplicably beautiful about the sight of a pair of attractive boobies."

"Now you're just being silly, Rudolph," the Professor sounded positively peeved, "We are way too far from the sea to get boobies here, it must be a seagull that's been blown off course, or migrated to a garbage dump..."

"Amen," replied Dean. "You'll know I'm dead once I'm no longer able to enjoy a nice day like this, and say, wow, that's an impressive pair of hooters."

"Where?" asked the Professor, suddenly sounding anxious. "If an owl is out at this time of the day, it may be injured – we should contact a wildlife rescue group..."

They sat enjoying their birdwatching for another half an hour until the class finished.

"Well, I gotta say guys, you were right," smiled Dean, turning to shake the Professor's hand. "Thank you for a most enlightening morning."

"Oh, er, well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," the old man blinked and smiled, "Although I think you really might get more out of it if you'd learn to recognise some of the local species properly – I have some documents from the American Ornithologists' Union that I could download for you, and their website is very useful..."

"So, what now?" asked Dean. "My personal preference would be to go and introduce myself to Carolina..."

Before any of the others could answer, there was a scream from the direction of the pool.

Dean set off as quickly as he could, given the difficulty in manoeuvring a wheelchair across the grounds, but he was one of the first on the scene.

A cluster of the ladies who had been doing aquaerobics were huddled together, comforting one, who was presumably the screamer, as a couple of staff members tried to herd them back towards the main building.

"What happened?" asked Dean, "Is somebody hurt?"

"Sir, please go back inside," said an orderly politely but firmly. "The police have been notified, and we want everybody to stay away, in case this is declared a crime scene."

Dean followed the orderly's inadvertent gaze to a garden bed.

A man wearing a Twilight Towers uniform was sprawled in the shrubbery.

Well, most of him, anyway.

* * *

Ermahgerd, that was a long one - prodding the bunny must've had the desired effect. Come on, everybody, get out those metaphorical pointy sticks! You can't clam up now, you miserable rodent!

Reviews are the Relaxing Novel Readings/Educational Field Trips With The Winchester Of Your Choice (At The Age Of Your Choice) On The Sunny Morning Of Life!


	10. Chapter 10

It's working! It's working! Thank you Denizens! Prod the bunny! _Speak, you vexing vermin!_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

"Well, that was unexpected," mused Sam when he met up with Dean and Bobby briefly after lunch.

"You're telling me!" agreed Dean happily, "That had to be the best blueberry pie I've eaten in years! It was magnificent! The catering in this place is really, really good!"

"I'm not talking about the food," Sam snapped, "I'm talking about... well... look." He gestured to take in many of the residents going about their daily business. "They're all just... you know, doing their thing. Shouldn't there be more, well, uproar? Shouldn't more residents be more, well, worried? Concerned? Scared, even?"

"Well, from what I've heard, the guy wasn't very well liked," Dean pointed out. "Geoffrey Thistlehead. Known around here as Geoffrey Pisshead. They certainly don't seem to be sad to see him gone."

"Maybe they're getting the hang of corpses turning up," suggested Bobby. "Or maybe bein' in a place like this concentrates the mind on your own mortality, so that other people's isn't so shocking. Of course, for myself," he sent a pointed glare in Dean's direction, "The occasional corpse isn't goin' to faze me, what with my service record and everything..."

"Hey, all I did was hint that there might be some previous history between you," Dean beamed, "All the rest of it is totally theirs. They probably just assumed that it was in a military setting. Maybe they thought that, being a killer combat commando cook, I had inside information. So it's all Sam's fault."

"What?" spluttered Sam. "It totally is not!"

"It totally is!" asserted Dean. "You and your wooden spoon. You're right about the lack of reaction, though," he conceded. "Carolina was the first one to spot him, and she needed some comforting," he waggled his eyebrows, "But after the initial shock, well, everybody does seem to be pretty calm about it."

"The police are treating it as some sort of animal attack," Sam gave his brother a shot of _Bitchface_ #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), "Since they can't find evidence of human involvement."

"You were there, Dean, what did you see?" pressed Bobby.

"You mean apart from Carolina's tits?" answered Dean brightly.

"The correct terminology for that species of the _Paridae_ family is 'Carolina Chickadee'," frowned Sam.

"Any time this year, gentlemen," sighed Bobby, rolling his eyes.

"Well, he was gutted, and I couldn't swear to it, but I'd hazard a guess that his liver had been pulled out," Dean replied, "And there was a definite smell of booze, not just like he'd been drinking it, but like he'd been rolling in it as well. Spilled a bottle, maybe."

"I'll see what I can find out when my shift ends," Sam told them, checking his watch, "But right now, I gotta go see what George needs help with next."

"So, how did Knitting Circle go?" asked Bobby, the guileless earnestness of his expression hinting that the jungle drums might already have filled him in.

"Oh. Er. Knitting Circle. It was, uh, good, it was good," stuttered Sam, his face flushing. "I just gotta pour tea and coffee, and keep the cookies and cake coming, and pick up any yarn or needles that they drop, and, you know, read for them a bit..."

"Sam!" They all turned to see George heading for them. "Oh, there you are! Would you be able to come back to help out with Knitting Circle? The ladies were most impressed with you."

"I do hope that Angie is keeping him on a short leash," winked Dean.

George smiled. "He's been a total hit," she informed them, "They say you have a lovely reading voice, Sam, and they appreciate the fact that you've worked out their drink and snack preferences so quickly."

"Oh. Well, it's nice to be, er appreciated," nodded Sam with despairing resignation. "Maybe you could tell Angie that I'll be in the kitchen, loading up the tray."

"Excellent!" George said, "I'll let her know."

"You're not reading out anything too racy, I hope," intoned Dean seriously when George had gone, "I'd hate to think that you were doing anything to make any of those dear, sweet, dignified old ladies feel uncomfortable..."

"I hate you both so much," Sam muttered, his ears going red.

"Well, I'm off for some quiet post-lunch time, as befits a man of my age," announced Bobby, "Which I intend to spend doin' some research. We can compare notes tomorrow, Sam."

"Sounds good. What about you, jerk?" Sam asked his brother.

"Well, Carolina, she who needed comforting after finding Mr Deadish McDeaderson, was an art teacher," Dean smiled, "And she still leads some meetings of the Art Club. She mentioned it to me, and invited me along to this afternoon's gathering."

"Huh, I'd pay money to see that," snorted Bobby, "Dean Winchester, sittin' at an easel, paintin' landscapes. Or bowls of fruit. Actually, I can't see you painting apples unless they're wrapped in pastry. Empty bottles yes, especially if you're the one who's emptied 'em. I can see it now, the next big ticket item offered at Sotheby's: _Still life: pie, empty bottle and condom wrapper_, by D. Winchester..."

"Oh, not landscapes," grinned Dean. "She teaches life drawing."

"Life drawing?" echoed Sam. "As in... oh, you won't be learning to draw, you just want another opportunity to ogle nude women!"

"You're right and you're wrong," Dean informed him, still smiling sunnily, "I won't actually be drawing; Carolina says that her ladies are always on the lookout for models to pose for them..."

Sam looked even more appalled. "You mean..."

"Yup," smirked Dean. "Not so much ogler, as oglee."

"Idjit," muttered Bobby.

"She says I have very good definition for my age," Dean went on, "And I do have some very interesting scars."

"What were you doing showing her your scars in public?" demanded Sam.

"She asked about them," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "And she tells me that they're quite challenging to draw accurately. She said she'd love a chance to document them..."

"Heh heh, 'document his scars'," chortled Bobby, "Aint heard it called that before..."

"I give up," sighed Sam. "Whatever made that guy die with gangrene of the hard-on, you just better watch out Dean, is all I'm saying."

"Off you go now, Gopher Francis," Dean made shooing motions at his brother, "The Knitting Circle ladies are waiting. Their grapes need peeling. Their tea needs pouring. Their cake needs cutting. Their yarn needs picking up. Their porn needs reading..."

"Jerk," muttered Sam, stalking off towards the kitchen.

He stocked his trolley with the grim determination of a bombardier overseeing the bomb racks of his aircraft being loaded, then headed for the Knitting Circle's lounge. As he rattled past the staff room, he saw George standing precariously on a chair, opening a locker.

"Hey, hang on, George!" he called, rushing in as the chair wobbled alarmingly.

"It's okay, I... oh!" Gravity looked sharply in her direction, and demanded to know what the hell she thought she was doing. She let out a startled shriek as it showed her the error of her ways.

Fortunately for George, Sam was there to grab her as she fell. "I gotcha!" he cried triumphantly. "Oh. Er," he added, as they found themselves in a clinch.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry!" George babbled, her face turning as pink as Sam's. "Thank you! Oh, I feel like such an idiot!"

"It's okay," Sam picked her upright and set her on her feet, "My brother is a total idiot, and I've been dealing with his major league idiocy for my entire life. You're an amateur, trust me."

"Well, thank you," she said, tweaking at her clothing, "While you're here, could you, uh, you know, I'm a bit altitudinally challenged..."

"Sure," he smiled, reaching into the locker that George had been trying to get to, and pulling out a tarnished flask, "Hey, I hope you're not drinking on the job," he added, passing the flask to her.

"No, this is Geoffrey's locker," she explained, taking the flask and putting it in a box on the table. "The police said I can clean out his stuff, and pack it up for his family. It's a terrible thing."

The locker didn't hold much: a stained travel mug, a cheap tablet with a crack in the screen and, tucked underneath a sweater, several bottles that had held very good, very expensive liquor, but were all empty. One item stood out as glaringly incongruous: an ornate, intricately decorated lacquered wooden box.

"What's this?" asked George as Sam handed the artefact to her. "Oh, wow, that's... is it Chinese?"

"Chinese, or Japanese," shrugged Sam, examining the delicate calligraphy inlays in the hard finish.

"Is it valuable, do you think?" asked George.

"I don't know," mused Sam, "It certainly looks a whole lot more expensive than all his other stuff. But I know somebody who can probably read it, or at least get a sense of what it says. He might be able to tell us. It would be good to let his family know, if it is worth anything." He pulled out his phone and filmed it, turning the box slowly. "Maybe it would be tactful to get rid of these bottles," he suggested, passing them down.

George stared hard at them. "Oh dear," she said in a small voice. "I think I know where these came from." At his questioning look, she continued. "We've had a number of complaints of disappearing bottles of alcohol over the last several months," she explained, "Several of our residents received bottles of very expensive liquor for special occasions. Birthdays, a couple of anniversaries, the birth of a grandchild, that sort of thing. The staff were inclined to dismiss it as elderly people drinking it all, then forgetting that they'd done so – a lot of our residents do enjoy a tipple after hours. It looks like they weren't having senior moments after all."

"Well, he can't answer for it now," Sam noted, "I suppose it's up to you whether you take this to management."

"I'll take care of it," she assured him. "I'll pass on the info discreetly, but there's no need to upset his family with it. Go on, then," she smiled, "Your audience awaits."

"Ask for help next time," he smiled back, "Or at least use a stepladder."

He took a moment to send the footage of the box to Bobby, then, unable to put it off any longer, he returned to his trolley and headed for the lounge.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Aha! Here he is!" Trilled the elderly lady who had first asked whether he was big everywhere, "Pay up, you cynical old cow!"

The lady next to her grumblingly handed over a dollar.

"They had a bet that you'd been scared off," Angie explained with an eye roll suggesting that this was all just part of another day in Knitting Circle. "Don't pay too much attention to them."

"But that's his job, to pay attention to us!" complained another, as Sam poured her tea. "And he's already very good at it. Just another couple of cookies, thank you, dear."

"Maybe you could read to us some more," suggested another, stirring her tea. "You do it wonderfully. You could do it professionally, you know."

"I did like your interpretation of Lord Uppington-Smythe," one of his new fans complimented him, "A very good mix of arrogance and vulnerability."

"Your Miss Henderson was good too," another admirer added, "Just the right combination of defiance, feminine wiles and sexual inexperience."

"You really gave it a dramatic edge," noted another.

"I just thought the sex scenes were good fun," shrugged another, to general murmurs of assent. "Does anybody have anything else good loaded, since we finished that one?"

"You won't believe what I found!" an old dear with silver hair smiled, waving her tablet, "Does anybody here remember the _Twilight_ books? Vampires and werewolves and tweeny-safe no-sex sex scenes?" There was a chorus of equal parts cheers and groans.

"Those books were just a campaign for pre-marital abstinence," scoffed one.

"I thought they were just a campaign for pre-marital abs," commented her neighbour thoughtfully. "Wasn't it the werewolf who couldn't keep his shirt on?"

"They were so tame, in hindsight," sighed another wistfully. "So, were you Team Edward, or Team Jacob?"

"Neither," sniffed the ferocious crocheter, "Those books were for little girls. If you wanted monsters and abs and proper sex, the _Supernatural_ books were the only way to go. One of them couldn't keep it in his pants. Darren, Darrel, or something. Oh, are you all right, dear?" she looked up in concern at Sam, who was pouring her tea. "You've gone a bit pale..."

"I'm fine," Sam wheezed, clutching at the teapot. "Cookies?"

"Oh, I remember those!" cried a demure looking octogenarian. As half a dozen of her fellow knitters smiled their recollection and muttered that they'd read them too, she dropped her knitting, and picked up her own tablet. "I have a whole bunch of them downloaded! I still read them. It was Dean. He was a real ladies' man. He fornicated his way back and forth across the country."

That seemed to pique the interest of the Knitting Circle. "So, what did he do then?" asked one knitter curiously. "Besides the fornication, I mean."

"Oh, he and his brother drove around in a classic car, killing evil supernatural monsters, after a demon killed their mother," the incurable fangirl enthused, "But there was more to it than that. His little brother was chosen as a baby to lead the armies of Hell, and start the Apocalypse, but they teamed up with a rebellious angel to stop that – Dean had sex with an angel, as I recall – oh, the storylines were very involved. And the two of them were totally hot."

"The fans could be amazingly avid," the ferocious crocheter cracked a smile as a chatter of interest ran through the group. "That series inspired some serious devotion. Do you know, at one point, I belonged to a group, we called outselves L.E.W.D., that campaigned for more gratuitous and graphically described nudity in those stories? We crashed the distributor's server! Oh, Sam, butter-fingers, are you all right?"

"It's okay," Sam squeaked, mopping at the spilt tea.

The Knitting Circle broke into gales of laughter. "I remember that!" laughed She-Of-The-Downloaded-Stories. "It was hilarious!"

"So, did it work?" pressed an enquiring matron, "Did you get more explicit writing after that?"

"Unfortunately, no," sighed the fangirl, to the accompanying murmurs of disappointment. "More's the pity. I was such a Deangirl."

"Those books sound like fun!" chirped an old dear who looked like she belonged in an advertising campaign for homestyle cookies, "Hot guys, classic cars, and sex! Why don't we have one of those for our next reading? Choose us a good one."

"If you wanted really raunchy stuff, you had to go to the fics," instructed the crocheter. "The stories that fans wrote about the Supernatural characters. In fact, I used to write some myself. I think I still have the files kicking around here somewhere..." she pulled out an older model tablet, and tapped thoughtfully at it, then passed it to her neighbour, whose eyes widened as she read.

"Fanfics, huh?" enquired the first old fangirl eagerly. "What was your favourite genre? Did you do angst? Or Horror? Hurt/Comfort?"

The crocheting lady smiled in fond recollection. "Destiel."

"Oh, my word," breathed the lady who was reading her friend's writing, "This is really good, this is... ladies, you have to hear this!" She held the tablet out to Sam. "Here you go, Sam," she enthused, "Read this one to us!"

Sam took the tablet as if it was a poisonous snake ready to strike. He was pretty sure that just looking at the text would likely have a similar effect on his brain to a good dose of neurotoxin: it would make him fall over, froth at the mouth, go into seizures and be afflicted with permanent brain damage.

He swallowed hard, took in the expectant faces around him, and looked to the tablet in his shaking hand.

" 'A H-hunter's Angel'," he read, his voice breaking in a way it hadn't done since he was thirteen, "Okay. Ahem. 'The moan that escaped from Dean was a sound of pure animal want, and when his eyes opened, Castiel saw that his pupils were blown wide with lust'..."

A cheerful ringtone interrupted the hushed quiet of the room. The phone's owner grabbed for it sheepishly as her fellow Circlers groaned and hissed in disgust, and discreetly checked the message. Her expression went from apologetic, to interested, to beaming smile.

"What is it?" asked the lady next to her.

"It's one of the girls in Carolina's class," she replied, packing up her knitting. "She says that they have a _model_."

The stress that she placed on the last word must've had some secret meaning known only to residents.

"It's been a while since I've done one of her classes," said her immediate neighbour, also packing up.

"Me too," nodded the ferocious crocheter, "I think it's important to show support for the efforts our fellow residents make to share their knowledge for our benefit."

Mutterings of 'so true', 'definitely', and 'here here' went around the room.

"Maybe we can have some more reading later," Madame Crochet smiled at Sam, reclaiming her tablet. "But for now, I think we'll just head off and show some appreciation for the selfless efforts of one of our own."

Inside of a minute, the room cleared, as Sam sagged against a table with relief.

"Are you okay, Sam?" asked Angie with concern, "You do actually look a bit pale."

"I'm fine," he gave her a brave, wobbly little smile. "Really, I'm good. It's just been a... taxing day."

Nonetheless, she made him eat a couple of chocolate cookies, in case his blood sugar was low.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam found Dean before he headed off at the end of his shift. Dean gave him an enormous smirk, and prepared to launch into a blow by blow description of his afternoon's activities and acquaintances.

"Hey, Sammy," he began, grinning hugely, "Well, I can report that... _urk_!" His voice turned to confusion as Sam bent down and pulled him into a hug. "Dude!"

"Thank you, big brother," Sam's voice dripped gratitude, "Thank you for saving me, again."

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Serving You Cookies In The Knitting Circle/Life Drawing Class Of Life!*

*If the Winchester Of Your Choice is modelling for you, wash the charcoal or pencil off your hands before you eat the cookies. Oh, and at least make a token effort to draw _something_; just sitting there staring is deemed bad form.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"He was a thieving asshole," Ian snorted derisively at breakfast the next day, when Dean casually wondered out loud if any more corpses would turn up in the bushes.

"A sneaky, thieving asshole, and he won't be missed," confirmed Rudolph, nodding his thanks as he helped himself to the extra potato pancakes that Dean had purloined for him. "Everyone knew he was doing it. There aren't any secrets in a place like this. We just couldn't prove it. Old Maurice had barely cracked that bottle of 30-year-old single malt, when Pisshead lifted it. That's not the first time he helped himself to Maurice's really good stuff. Poor old Maurice – at his age, he's entitled to enjoy just one pleasure. You don't mess with a man's booze. You just don't."

"Amen," nodded Dean fervently.

"Serves Pisshead right," humphed Mike in a satisfied tone, "Thieves are low. Anyone who tries to steal from us golden oldies, well, that's doubly low."

"Jameson was low, too," sniggered Ian, snagging some of the extra bacon Dean had brought to the table. "Still is. Six feet low now." The other men chortled too.

"Who was Jameson?" asked Dean.

"Abraham 'Scrooge' Jameson," elaborated Mike, "He was a senior financial officer working here. A cutter of corners, a scrimper on quality, and generally another all-around asshole. The Activities Committee meetings with him sometimes went this close to turning into knock-down, drag-out fights. You'd have thought that it was his money, the way he refused to part with any of it."

"He did think it was his money," humphed Rudolph, "And look where he is now."

"A couple of residents went along to his funeral, just to piss on his grave," cackled Ian. "That was funny. Don't mess with grey power!"

"It's amazing that they can get anyone to work here, if the staff keep dropping dead in such, er, interesting ways," remarked Dean.

Ian gave Dean a long, thoughtful look. "I know what you're up to," he said accusingly.

"Yeah?" Dean replied, staying casual but eyeing the cutlery on the table, and feeling the reassuring presence of the Spoon Of Doom tucked behind him.

"You're just on the look-out for another opportunity to do some more comforting!" announced Ian with a smug grin. "So if we see you, lurking in the shrubbery, waiting for corpses to be discovered, we'll know what you're up to."

"It did seem to work, though," Mike pointed out. "Would it be okay if I came out to lurk with you?"

"You don't need to lurk," Rudolph huffed in amusement, "If reports coming out of Carolina's drawing class are anything to judge by..."

"And you didn't come back to your own room until after three this morning," Mike waggled his eyebrows in approval. "So, did you get to check out Carolina's Chickadees?"

"What can I say, guys?" Dean gestured expansively, "She wanted to document my scars."

"Is that what you kids are calling it nowadays?" marvelled Ian. "Just fancy."

"So, what's on the agenda today?" asked Dean. "Maybe we should go and visit Maurice, you know, offer solace to the bereaved – losing a bottle of 30-year-old single malt, that would be pretty damned devastating."

"Oh, he'll be asleep," Ian informed him, "Poor old guy sleeps most of the day. He's a night owl."

"So would you, if you drank as much as he did," grinned Rudolph. "He's gotta be at least a hundred years old now, and he can hold more than a camel!"

Mike looked at his watch. "We could go join the Drama Club. They're doing a reading of _Lysistrata_."

"What the hell is a _Lysistrata_?" asked Dean. "It sounds like something you'd use to bleach the toilet."

"It's an ancient Greek drama about women using sex to get men to do what they want," supplied Mike.

"Oh, so it's just a play about the story of life," sighed Rudolph.

"No, no, it's going to be a contemporary dramatic reading," Mike enthused, "You have to get into character. We could be in the Chorus! The Old Men, getting harrassed by the Old Women! We get to make up at the end," he added suggestively."

"Let me guess," humphed Ian, "Maisie Hawkins will be taking the role of 'Greek Woman Who Tears All Her Clothes Off At The Dramatic Moment'."

"Could be, could be," grinned Mike, "Maisie will probably be Peace, the nude handmaiden who attends Lysistrata as she arranges the peace talks. And of course, a certain amount of... interpretation and improvisation is always good fun. Come on guys, this is classical Greek theatre. It will be educational!"

"You could have competition for the ladies, you know," Ian informed him, "Apparently, the Knitting Circle has a new Gopher, and they can't get enough of him reading their ladyporn books to them; 'He makes you want to cover him in chocolate and run barefoot through his sideburns', according to one of them..."

"Well, I never did pay much attention to this sort of thing at school," shrugged Dean, "So maybe I could go along. I might learn something."

It was a win-win, decided Dean later, as he applauded the cast enthusiastically. Not only could he tell Sam that he'd spent some time re-examining and discussing a reinterpretation of the work of the ancient Greek poet Aristophanes as pertaining to gender stereotypes, but Mike was right – Maisie Hawkins' impromptu interpretation of 'The Lioness Astride The Cheese Grater', which the women of Greece had vowed to abstain from until their demands for an end to the war were met, was _extremely_ educational.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"So, how goes the reading, Sam?" leered Dean, when the three of them met before Sam headed back to his motel.

"We're doing _Lady Chatterly's Lover_," he sighed. "It could be worse."

"How did you get them to leave off the thoroughly disturbin' fan fiction?" marvelled Bobby.

"Oh, I just told them that it was a literary classic, and that it had been banned for obscenity in every English-speaking country, and several others," Sam replied gloomily. "That got their attention."

"I'll bet _Fanny Hill _would appeal to them," suggested the older Hunter.

"Oh, God, I read that for Literature," groaned Sam, "Jess wouldn't stop laughing. She marked 'good bits' for me, and made sound effects while I was trying to read..."

"So, are you two geek freaks any closer to finding out what's offing the staff here?" asked Dean.

"That box that the booze thief had in his locker?" Bobby brought up the footage on his phone. "It's a spell box. Or a curse box, if you like." He pointed out the characters. "There, it says, 'He who steals it, shall suffer it unto death, foregoing enjoyment'," he translated. "It's expressed in very formal language. Polite, even. Basically, it's sayin' that, if you go stealing something, you'll die from the effects it has, but you won't have any of the fun from it."

"So, like, if you steal somebody's car, you'll get run over?" asked Dean, "Or if you steal chocolate, you'll drop dead from blocked arteries?"

"Or, if you steal booze, you'll die of liver problems," Sam made the connection. "There were empty bottles hidden in his locker – George says she thinks he must've stolen them from residents."

"And he did die of liver failure," chortled Bobby, "Because havin' your liver ripped out, that definitely constitutes dramatic and acute hepatic insufficiency. I think somebody sicced a shojo onto Geoffrey."

"A Japanese vengeful spirit?" queried Sam. "They're attracted to alcohol, too, arent' they?"

"Yup," Bobby nodded, "Geoffrey would've been a prime candidate for such a curse. And their preferred method of carrying out their 'instructions' is disembowelling of some sort. It fits." He looked grim. "So, we got somebody on the premises who's not only informed about the supernatural, they aren't afraid to use it."

"It could be anybody," shrugged Dean, "They all knew he was stealing booze, and all hated him for it. Any one of them could have wanted him dead. Poor old Maurice, a 30-year-old single malt..."

"No, hang on, I don't think they did," Sam frowned in thought. "Bobby, can you read that curse again? Are you sure you have the sense of it right?"

"Watashi no hobākurafuto wa unagi de ippai desu," muttered Bobby as he checked the translation. "Yup. What are you thinking?"

"Well, if that's the case, they didn't necessarily want him dead," Sam reasoned. "It's 'He who steals it' who'll die. So, if you don't steal anything, you're safe. You're only in trouble once you start thieving. And if you were angry enough to want someone dead, why would you be polite about it? You'd just say, 'You're gonna die, asshole', and set the shojo onto him. He had an out. If he'd kept his hands to himself, Geoffrey would still be walking among us."

Dean looked thoughtful. "Some of the guys were talking about the finance officer who died," he relayed, "They referred to him as Scrooge. Said he was a real tightass with the money. One of them said that he thought it was his, not theirs. Wasn't he the one who was found bled out?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "He was. Do you think someone might've done the same with him? You know, if he was, what, stealing? Had his hand in the piggy bank?"

"I guess bleeding out might count as a form of disembowelling," pondered Bobby. "How would the other guys fit, then? Burst stomach, yeah, possibly, maybe he was heisting things from the kitchen or something."

"They do take their cookies very seriously," Sam pointed out, "And if you don't cut the cake into just the right number of slices, well, Cas help you..."

"One thing at a time," Bobby decided. "We gotta find out whether this Scrooge guy had any serious embezzlement goin' on."

"I'll keep nosing around," Dean told them, "Mingling with the locals."

"I'll see if I can roust out any rumours about the deceased staff members," Sam said, "Maybe have a look into their backgrounds, see if there are any hints of financial misdeeds."

"We can double team that," nodded Bobby. "And all keep our ears open."

"Actually, I try pretty hard not to listen to what I'm reading," mumbled Sam in a defeated tone.

"Maybe we could get a Japanese spell box for you," suggested Dean brightly, "We can inscribe it, 'What you demand from others will kill you,' then you can fill it with cookies and present it to the Knitting Circle, and the next time they want you to read porny goodness, they'll all climax themselves to death on the spot."

"Dean!" snapped Sam with a searing Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual), "That's gross! That's just... aaaaargh, that's a mental picture I didn't need, you jerk! Anyway, afterwards, how would I explain a room full of dead old ladies?"

"Well, they'll all die with beautiful smiles," Dean grinned. Sam flipped him off. "What? I can't think of a better way to die. We could just tell everyone that you let them run barefoot through your sideburns..."

"If you were a woman, we'd have to bury you in a Y-shaped coffin," muttered Sam, stalking off.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The next few days passed without the sudden appearance of any more corpses. Bobby researched and continued his stand-off with Matron about the propriety of hats indoors, especially in the dining room. Sam continued as preferred Gopher of the Knitting Circle and tried to steer them away from the worse excesses of overwrought allegedly erotic prose (He managed to claim file corruption when a sprightly nonagenarian cheerfully announced that she'd found a version of _Fifty Shades Of Grey_). Dean hung with his new buddies, continued to filch extra breakfast items every morning, got to know more residents and staff, asked seemingly casual questions, posed for the Art Club a couple more times, and organised an excursion to see the final rounds of an indoor beach volleyball tournament being held at a stadium not too far away.

The weather turned suddenly as Spring days can do, and when the residents of Twilight Towers found themselves stuck indoors due to the onset of heavy rain, Dean arranged the inaugural meeting of the Indoor Wheelchair Drag Racing Club, which involved a number of chairbound senior citizens merrily hurtling along the longest corridor in the place, until Matron came to investigate, glared at the tyre marks on the walls, then insisted that such an activity was just asking for trouble in the form of broken hips and in any case civilised people did _not_ behave like that.

"I think I should probably have retired anyway," shrugged Ian philosophically from the seat of the electric mobility scooter he sometimes used for longer trips. "This thing is as slow as a wet week."

"Maybe you should chop your chair," grinned Dean. "Sam and I found one for our, er, uncle, mostly as a joke – he hardly ever uses it, except to give my grandkids rides. I tweaked it a bit – it goes much better now."

"Yeah?" Ian sounded interested.

"Oh, yeah," Dean went on, "For a start, if you pull the speed limiter off, you get much better torque through the converter..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Some time later, Sam would use a number of Bitchfaces™, including #1 (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!), #7 (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That? ) #14 (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child) and #8 (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), and also give his brother The Lecture (although why he bothered he wasn't sure, it's not like it had actually worked at any time in the previous fifty years or so).

Later still, he would grin wryly, and thank his big brother for managing to save him again. Because the ladies of the Knitting Circle had just found an ancient archive from a website called More Than Brothers, and asked him to read a fic written nearly half a century ago by someone called samlicker81, when George breathlessly burst into the lounge and without preamble said,

"It's your brother – he's been in an accident..."

* * *

Yes, I went there. In Japanese, Bobby said that his hovercraft is full of eels. I regret nothing.

So, what about Sam and George? I really don't think she's evil. She doesn't feel evil.

Oh, and 'The Lioness Astride The Cheese Grater'? I'm not making that up. In the play _Lysistrata_, 'The Lioness Astride The Cheese Grater' is the sex position that the women of Greece all vow to abstain from, which is really a solemn and serious oath, because apparently it's something that's extremely enjoyable (although it sounds a bit painful to me; one can only presume that the cheese graters of ancient Greece differed considerably from the one I have in my kitchen cupboard). Supposedly, Aristophanes just made it up as a joke, but you never can tell, with those crazy ancient Greeks... Some chocolate-coated internets to whoever can say why that play is particularly pertinent to the Jimiverse. (No, it has NOTHING TO DO with 'The Lioness Astride The Cheese Grater', you reprobates).

Help prod the bunny along! Reviews are the Interpretive Readings By The Winchester Of Your Choice At The Age Of Your Choice In The Drama Group Of Life!*

*If you insist on attempting to interpret 'The Lioness Astride The Cheese Grater', get a room and do it in private.


	12. Chapter 12

...And the box of chocolate-coated interwebs goes to** Laminaria Lutra, **for picking the relevance of Lysistrata to the Jimiverse. Well done, and you are under absolutely no obligation to share.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

"Where is he?" demanded Bobby, pushing past a member of the staff. "Where is that idjit? He'd better still be alive, because I'm gonna kill him!"

"Mr Singer!" Matron frowned as she spoke whilst intercepting him, "That is not what Mr Winchester needs right now."

"You are absolutely right," agreed Bobby, "What he does need is somebody to slap him upside the head for bein' an asshat with all the sense of an ADHD second-grader who's forgotten to take his frigging Ritalin!"

"Language, Mr Singer!" said Matron sternly.

"Where's Dean?" Sam arrived hot on Bobby's heels, "Oh, hello Matron Schultz, how's my brother? What happened?"

"Doctor is with him now," Matron said, in a voice with soothing overtones, "I'm afraid that an impromptu activity got a little out of hand, as these things are sometimes wont to do..."

"He highsided a mobility scooter through a chicane," humphed Bobby. "What sort of an idjit does that?"

"The sort named Dean," sighed Sam, "Maybe we should nail him to his own wheelchair."

"That sort of comment is not helpful," chided Matron. "Although I did once work on a geriatric ward where we did a certain amount of experimentation with velcro..."

The door to the medical bay opened, and a middle-aged woman with a stethoscope around her neck stepped out. "Well, he's essentially intact," she said with a smile, "I don't think he's damaged his IF – his internal fixations – but he's sustained some cuts and bruises."

Matron turned to Sam and Bobby. "Doctor says, his leg is not damaged further, but he has cuts and bruises," she told them seriously.

"He gave his shoulder a good whack - it didn't pop out again, but he'll be sore for a few days," the doctor went on.

"Doctor says, he has hurt his bad shoulder, and it will be sore for a few days," Matron relayed.

"As for concussion, well, he did invite me to put my stethoscope somewhere that a heartbeat is not normally detectable," the doctor grinned in amusement as she spoke, "But given the rest of our conversation, I get the feeling that in this case, it's a sign that his brain is operating normally."

"Doctor says, she sees no indication of head injury," Matron translated smoothly.

"Uh, that's good. Good-ish, anyway," stuttered Sam, eyes movinig from the doctor to Matron in confusion as Bobby just sighed in resignation. "And it, er, sounds as though his brain is operating normally. Well, as normally as Dean's ever does."

After Matron insisted on parroting a few more comments from the doctor, they were allowed in to see Dean.

"Dean!" Sam was just relieved to see his brother give them a small sheepish smile.

"Oh, God, this is so embarrassing," moaned Dean with a wince, "I was all set to take pole position..."

"What the hell happened?" Bobby asked.

"I think I hit the line where the tiles meet the carpet at just the wrong angle," sighed Dean sadly.

"No, no, no, you utter idjit, what I mean is, what possessed you to try racing scooters?" barked Bobby. "We're on a job here!"

"We were bored," Dean answered defensively, "And it was all part of the mingling with the locals. It was working, too. Carolina was going to be my grid girl..."

"Well, we're a man down for now," Sam humphed. "Having you stuck here is a setback."

"You're telling me," Dean looked terribly sad. "Maisie and I were going to have a try at The Lioness Astride The Cheese Grater tonight..."

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "I give up."

"Hey," protested Dean with another wince, "I've been on the job, gathering intel."

"We've been on the job as well, Dean," Sam favoured his brother with a Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child) as he spoke, "And have managed to do it without damaging ourselves in a reckless manner."

"I wasn't reckless!" Dean shot back, "We were all wearing helmets!"

"Son," Bobby shook his head, "Takin' metal mixin' bowls from the kitchen and puttin' them on your heads does not count as protective equipment."

"Well, anyway," Dean humphed, "I've been talking to people. For example, the guy who was found bled out? Scrooge? Rudolph had a bit of a snoop around in the financial files – he was a hotshot tax accountant before he retired – and announced himself really impressed. The guy had been skimming for years, hiding his tracks really well."

"Yeah, George said that there was an investigation of some sort going on at Board level," Sam nodded. "They wanted to resolve it quietly, without any bad publicity, but apparently he'd done a good job, and getting the money back was going to be pretty much impossible."

"So, he was 'bleeding' the place's funds, and as punishment he got bled out himself," mused Bobby. "Another 'As you sow, so shall you reap' death."

"So, how many people of Japanese ancestry are there here?" wondered Dean.

"Anyone could send a shojo," Bobby pointed out, "Although you would need someone who knows enough to write the curse. And there are a number of people here with some Japanese ancestry, or at least who speak the language to some degree," he confirmed, "Enough to have a Japanese conversation and readin' club, including one little old lady who's scarily highly dan-ranked in ninjutsu, and you'd never pick her."

Dean frowned. "You can't mean Mariko Yukogawa?" he said dubiously. "Who takes the Bonsai Club? She's four foot nothing, older than you, and can't even walk without her stick."

"That aint a stick, idjit," Bobby informed him, "It's a hanbo. A weapon. She's been very accomodatin' in allowing me to practise some of my less usual conjugations."

"Bobby, you rogue," Dean's eyebrows waggled like a pair of caterpillars of the species _Insinuatus livingsexgodus_ _innuendo_. "What kind of conjugations are we talking about, here? The Lioness Astride The Sushi Roll, perhaps..."

"Idjit," growled Bobby, swatting at Dean.

"George said last night that they gave him the chance to repay it and avoid any prosecution, just before he died," Sam told them. "And the other guy, the one who had his heart torn out? He aroused suspicion when he suddenly turned up with a very expensive car and a very expensive watch and some very expensive electronics gadgets that he couldn't possibly have afforded on his salary. There was a rumour that he'd been helping a body part trafficking syndicate identify residents who might be worth hijacking from the morgue when they..."

"Wait wait wait," interrupted Dean, "George told you this 'last night'. You had a day off yesterday, Sam."

"Yeah," his brother shrugged, "And I spent it chasing details of Mr Heartless. There's a black market for body parts out there, everything from medical teaching aids to tissue harvesting for surgery – a cadaver can be worth an amazing amount of..."

"So, what were you doing talking to George, 'last night'?" probed Dean slyly. "Wasn't pillow talk, was it? Because talking about the fascinating uses of a dead body is totally the sort of thing you'd talk about with a woman in bed, you giant nerd."

"No!" snapped Sam. "It was just dinner, and I asked her about..."

"Aha!" Dean yapped triumphantly. "You're wining and dining her first! It's kinda sweet that my little bro is an old-fashioned class act."

"Dean, get your mind out of the gutter," Sam rolled his eyes, "It's just been dinner, and a lunch, and..."

"And lunch! Yowzah! Hey, I'm not complaining!" Dean assured him with a smile, "I approve completely! There's nothing wrong with using your sexual wiles to get information. Just ask Mata Hari. Or in your case, Mata Hairy..."

"So," Sam went on with a definite Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk), "While I've been speaking to George in a perfectly appropriate way that's none of your business anyway, you disgusting perv, I've also got intel on Roger." His face screwed up in distaste. "Mr gangrene-of-the-dick? He was caught, er, abusing himself during work hours. He was dismissed for it, but he came back one more time to, er, you know, as payback on the ladies who'd reported him. Left a stain on the carpet in the lounge that Knitting Circle use, and drew a giant dick on the carpet with marking paint."

"Actually, I'm kind of in agreement with that one," Dean mused, "I mean, the guy was totally gross. It was a fitting way for a perverted asshole to die."

"And the one with the burst stomach?" Sam went on. "He was a chronic filcher of items from the tea trolley. He'd been warned several times – the clubs that meet and have refreshments served, they know exactly what should be on that trolley. They know if a single cookie is missing. Hell, they know if a single crumb is missing. A single sprinkle off a cake. I found his autopsy report – his stomach was full of cookies, cakes, and miniature pastries. It happened after half of a black forest cake went missing on his run. Apparently, it's a specialty of one of the kitchen staff here, and is especially prized."

"Oh, yeah," Dean sighed fondly, "I can attest that Max's black forest cake is almost as good as his apple tarts. He uses real cream. And lots and lots or Kirsch."

"Well, sounds like definite vengeance deaths," Bobby agreed, "So, I'd say we have the why, the what, and the how. All we gotta do now is find the who."

Sam looked thoughtful. "Maybe we can draw them out, make them break cover," he mused, "If I started filching things, I might find a curse box in my locker, then we can kill it..."

"No way," said Dean sternly. "You are not trolling yourself as bait. Anyway, what would you steal – ladies' hair car products? I can see your curse box now, 'He who keeps stealing our hair care products will be blue rinsed into submission, then permed to death', then we'd find you with hot rollers stuffed into every available orifice..."

"That may not be necessary," Bobby cut in, "Scuttlebutt around the place suggests that another member of the staff may already be annoyin' the residents to the point where somebody may act. He's a bit of a religious nut – gets worked up about a particular issue, and leaves pamphlets all over the place, demanding that sinners repent while they still have time. As you can imagine, that don't go down too well with people who are well past the halfway point between birth and death."

"Hang on," Sam said, "Is this Derek we're talking about? Derek Kenworth? Short, weedy, middle-aged, looks perpetually annoyed, leaves Bibles around the place?"

"Oh, Killjoy Keworth," Dean nodded in understanding. "I've heard of him. He goes through these phases of trying to save people from eternal damnation. He tried to get the residents to go teetotal. Then he tried to get them to embrace celibacy. He even tried to enforce no meat on Fridays. And he caused a hell of a stir one year when he petitioned the kitchen to stop serving bacon at breakfast during Lent, as a sacrifice. He even tried to stop Carolina's life drawing lessons at one point; I understand he was left bruised and confused after he was battered about the head and shoulders with some portable easels."

"Well, at the moment, he's got his sights set on warnin' everyone about the evils of gambling," Bobby informed them, "And the peril that their mortal souls face if they continue with their blatant worship of Mammon."

"What?" Sam queried dubiously. "Gambling? There's the odd card game, sure, but mostly, people play for the fun, just for matches, or small change at most. The Poker Club play for pasta shells, and write the winner's name on the whiteboard until next time! Which, I see, happens to be 'R. Singer' at the moment..."

"Well, he may be pushing his luck," Bobby said grimly, "The last couple of weeks, he's been targeting Bingo."

Sam looked horrifed. "Bingo?" he said in disbelief. "He's messing with _Bingo_? Is he suicidal?"

"So far, the residents just laugh at him, since all he does is hang around outside the door with his pamphlets," Bobby. "But tryin' to mess with Bingo, well, he might just be going too far."

"Well, it might be a good idea to keep a close eye on Killjoy," Dean mused, "If he's going to put himself out there as bait."

"We'll do that," Sam told him, "You just concentrate on healing up. You're going to stay here for a couple of days."

"What?" Dean looked suddenly panicked. "I don't want to stay here! I'm fine!" he protested, doing a pretty good job of hiding the wince.

"Well, all you have to do is convince Matron," Sam added sweetly, "Good luck with that."

"I hate you, bitch," Dean grumped, settling back into his pillows.

"Well, I'll check out Killjoy's roster, but right now, I gotta get back to work," sighed Sam. "That cake won't cut itself, that tea won't pour itself, those cookies won't serve themselves..."

"That porn won't read itself," Dean appended with a smirk.

"Jerk."

They left the staff to fuss over Dean, which he tolerated with as much good grace as he could muster (which is to say, not very much). Sam headed off back towards the Knitting Circle's meeting, whilst Bobby made his way back to his room, to get on with some research.

He'd been there for about fifteen minutes when there was a discreet tap at the door. It was Matron, wearing a happy smile.

"Er, hello Matron," he began warily, "What can I do for you?"

"The question, Mr Singer, is more what I can do for you," she beamed at him, "You have a visitor!"

"A... visitor?" he echoed incredulously, getting to his feet.

"Yes! A visitor!" Matron positively radiated happiness on his behalf. "Your nephew is here, and he's demanding to see your room, and assure himself that you are being looked after properly!"

"Nephew?" Bobby tried again.

"It's so wonderful when families take such an interest in the welfare of their elders," Matron sighed approvingly, "I brought him straight through. Do of course show him around anywhere he wants to see, I want him to be completely reassured that you are well cared for." She turned to someone outside his room. "Do come on in, your uncle will be so pleased to see you."

Before Bobby could ask any further questions, a well-dressed figure wearing a beaming smile strode into the room and grabbed him in a hug, as Matron watched on with evident satisfaction.

"Uncle Robert!" his visitor cried happily, "Oh, Uncle Robert, it's so good to see you!"

All too aware of Matron's attention, Bobby reluctantly returned the hug. "Crowley!" he hissed, "What the hell are you doin' here?"

* * *

I don't know that the bunny was planning on any deadly peril, but we'll have to see what happens. Unless the Winchesters mess with Bingo nights.

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Serving You Black Forest Cake At The Teatime Of Life!


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Oh, Uncle Robert," Crowley pulled back, and beamed at Bobby. "Are they looking after you? Are they feeding you properly? Is the bedding warm enough for your tired old bones?"

"They're lookin' after me just fine. Fergus," Bobby grated out through a rictus smile, "You have nothing to worry about."

"Oh, but I do," sighed Crowley, turning to Matron in appeal. "I wish you'd come and stay with me, Uncle Robert, Auntie Verael would so enjoy your company. I worry about him, Matron, living alone in that big, rambling, empty house..."

"I don't live alone!" protested Bobby.

"He does have pets, true," Crowley conceded, "A Pitbull-Irish Setter cross, thick as a plank but it'd tear your leg off as soon as look at you, and a shaggy sort of Poodle-dishmop hybrid thing with big sad eyes, but they cause him more headaches than anything else..."

"I'll leave you to your visit," Matron announced in contentment as she departed, "You are so lucky to have a nephew like Fergus, Mr Singer!"

"Oh yeah, so lucky," griped Bobby, giving Crowley the stinkeye. "So, what the hell are you doing here?" he demanded when Matron was gone.

"I'm here to make sure they're looking after you!" declared Crowley. "I can't believe those two miserable bastards would throw you out of your own home, it makes my heart weep, Bobby, well, it would if I had one, after everything you've done for them, how could they..."

"I'm on a job here, idjit!" Bobby growled, "This is a Hunt! Somebody has been siccing a shojo onto staff members who might deserve some sort of punishment for bad behaviour, but endin' up dead is a bit drastic."

Crowley blinked as if confused. "Bobby, that's a low-level demonic entity. It's beneath your notice. Your talents are wasted on such a petty job – it's like sending a Rolls Royce to soccer practice to pick up half a dozen muddy, screaming kiddies. Now, if you're after a job that would really be worthy of your talents, I happen to have a position vacant Downstairs, Senior Board Executive. The successful candidate will have extensive knowledge and experience in the field of dealing with otherworldly entities, including the unsavoury schemings of demons..."

"Is that what you're here for?" Bobby spluttered in annoyance, "Tryin' to recruit me again?"

"No! No!" protested Crowley. "Well, maybe a bit. Oh, and I'm here to keep my hand in, too." He smiled a salesman's smile. "Do a bit of fieldwork, lead from the front, show the youngsters how it's done..."

"Crowley," Bobby frowned threateningly, "Are you here to make a deal?"

"I told you, places like this are fertile ground," Crowley shrugged, "The looming reality of mortality, and all that. For those who've sipped life in their prime, must gulp it down at closing time... don't look at me like that! Look, it's like you doing the odd Hunt. I need the change of scenery, Bobby. I can't spend every day all day behind a desk, reading reports, or being PowerPointed into submission, it would drive me mad! Mad, I tell you!" He peered at Bobby with the expression of a dog watching his owner eat bacon.

"If I catch you makin' a deal with anyone in this place, Crowley, I will end you," Bobby said quietly, "And the consequences be damned. Some of these folks, they know they're gonna die soon, and they're just scared. Don't you dare go preying on that on my watch!" he hissed angrily, "Don't you_ dare_!"

"All right! All right!" Crowley held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, "I won't! Can I at least explain to the, er, individual why there won't be a deal?"

"I'll come with you and do the explainin'," snapped Bobby. "We can let Matron see us goin' for a walk. It'll make her so happy, to see me with my beloved doting nephew Fergus."

"Verael would be so pleased to have you on board," Crowley wheedled, "Whenever the Hellhounds do something she doesn't approve of – which usually means that Gedda is napping in her stationery drawer, and the little dear does get a bit gassy when she snoozes – Verael mutters 'Bobby Singer would not tolerate this!' And Gedda would love the company of some of your dogs..."

"Crowley, I have stashed, in this room, a sawn-off and a good supply of Mark XXII Anti-Demon Rounds," Bobby informed his visitor. "Don't make me break cover by ruinin' another one of your suits."

"There are times, Bobby," sighed Crowley in a hurt voice, "There are times, when I'm feeling particularly ground down and a bit blue, when I think that you have no regard for my feelings."

They strolled through the grounds until they arrived at a secluded point in the garden where two paved paths crossed. It was a pleasant green spot, with a well maintained bench on a green sward. A riot of colourful annuals tumbled over the edging of the flower beds – the round one in the middle of the paving intersection showed signs of recent disturbance.

The man who sat on the bench was unremarkable, unobtrusive, and completely ordinary. As they approached, he looked up with a mix of hope and trepidation.

"Paul, isn't it?" Bobby said, sitting down beside the elderly man, "I've seen you around. Poker club. And Japanese conversation?"

"My father was stationed in Okinawa," Paul smiled, "We lived there until I was in my teens." He looked sadly at Bobby. "I thought there was something about you – you played poker like a demon, that's for sure. That's why I buried my box. So, let's not waste time, what I want is..."

"Hang on, hang on!" interrupted Crowley, sounding miffed, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Well, making a deal, of course," Paul answered, his expression confused. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I..." Crowley was so stunned and then so annoyed that, with an inarticulate noise of outrage, his eyes suddenly showed burning red.

"Oh, I get it," Paul nodded in understanding, "You're like his apprentice or something? Well, that's okay, I don't mind. Now, Bobby, what I want is..."

"His... apprentice?" spluttered Crowley, as Bobby strove to keep a straight face. "His _apprentice_? What, I'm Vader to his Sidious? I'll have you know, you ignorant old fart, that I am Crowley, King of the Crossroads!" He smirked unpleasantly.

Paul gazed at him dubiously. "Are you sure?" he asked, turning back to Bobby.

"What exactly were you expecting, Paul?" Bobby enquired curiously, as actual steam started to rise gently from Crowley.

"Well, you know," Paul waved a hand uncertainly in the steaming demon's direction, "Somebody with a certain... ambiance. Knowing, dangerous, an air of... concealed menace, maybe. That sort of thing. Not a limey, that's for sure. Not somebody so... avuncular."

"Avuncular?" Crowley repeated in disbelief. "You look at me, and the first thing you think is, 'avuncular'?"

"Well, yes," shrugged Paul, "You look like somebody's favourite uncle. Well-dressed. Happy. Cuddly."

"Cuddly?" echoed Crowley in a flat voice. "Did you just describe me as _cuddly_?"

"Well," Paul looked sheepish, "If I'm honest, yes, a bit cuddly."

"Listen, mate," Crowley snarled, "I am not avuncular, and I am not the least bit cuddly! I am King of the Crossroads, I am King of Hell, I am powerful enough to blow your pitiful excuse for a soul right out of that pathetic and squishy disintegrating ruin of wetware that passes for your body, and I am quite possibly the most viciously and gleefully evil bastard you could ever hope to come across without tripping over Lucifer himself!"

Paul peered up at Crowley. "If you're King of Hell, why don't you do something about your hair?"

Crowley let out a yelp of displeasure as one hand flew to his less-than-luxuriant hairline.

"As unlikely as it seems," Bobby cut in, "Crowley here is indeed a powerful crossroads demon..."

"And King of Hell," Crowley reminded him.

"And King of Hell," Bobby conceded, "And he's here today to tell you that you can't make a deal."

Paul looked astonished, then confused. "But... if you're King of Hell... why?"

"Because...er...because Bobby said so," Crowley managed to look shamefaced. "Sorry."

"Bobby..." Paul looked... lost. "Please, Bobby, the doctor says my heart is on the way out, I don't want to die..."

"Paul, you will die," Bobby told him firmly but kindly. "We all will, sooner or later. If I've learned one thing, it's that we all die..."

"Some of us more than others, _coughwinchesterscough_," muttered Crowley sullenly.

"And whether it's in ten weeks or ten months, or you deal with this asshole and it's ten years, in the end, we all die." Bobby smiled. "That's life. It's a sexually transmitted terminal disease, Paul. You can't escape that single, simple fact. A friend of mine, his name was Jimi, once put it best a long time ago – 'It is the way of things', he said."

"But... what happens, you know, after you... don't you worry about it?" Paul asked.

"Nope," Bobby answered promptly. "What's the point? Whatever happens after this meatsuit finally runs out of juice isn't up to me. Whatever is gonna happen will happen." He paused thoughtfully. "If there's any justice in this universe, I'll get to spend more time fishin'. And eating more home cooking than my doctor says is good for me." He dropped his voice conspiratorially. "There will be a lot of short crust pastry involved."

"But my family, my kids," Paul almost spoke to himself. "What about them? Do you have kids, Bobby?"

"Two," Bobby stated proudly, "Boys. And when I turn up my toes, they'll do just fine. Oh, they'll be sad, of course, but they're grown up now, Paul, just like yours. Hell, one has grandkids! I know, I know, every time you look at your own, you don't see adults whose own hair is goin' grey; some days, all I see is a munchkin with freckles and a rifle that's bigger than he is, or a toddler with hair like a mop and a determination to use those great big puppy dog eyes to get you to read the story book just one more time before bed..." he shook his head, chuckling. "But they're grown up, now. That's the whole point of raisin' them and watchin' them grow up, so that you can leave them behind, and know that they'll do just fine."

"Is this the bit where we join hands and sing 'Circle Of Life'?" enquired Crowley with pointed politeness. Bobby gave him a searing glare.

"I can feel it," Paul said miserably, "Sometimes, I get this feeling in my chest, and I think this is it, but then it's not, and, and, it's not going to improve..."

"Well, it's a struggle to get into this world," Bobby shrugged, "It's not so surprisin' that sometimes, it's a struggle to get out. Me, I intend to leave the same way I arrived..."

"What, kicking and yelling and covered in somebody else's blood?" Crowley piped up.

"What I mean," Bobby glared him into silence, "Is that at the time, I had no comprehension of what was goin' on, but it was supposed to happen, and there I was. So, when I'm gone, I may have no comprehension of what's happenin', but it's supposed to happen, and... there I'll be. At any rate," his voice became stern, "You do NOT want to deal with this asshat. You do NOT want to go to Hell. It's not worth it. Nothing is worth that. An extra ten years isn't even half a drop in the ocean of eternity."

Crowley suddenly brightened with inspiration. "Perhaps a small demonstration would help," he suggested, "Come on, Paul, let me show you just exactly how cuddly Uncle Crowley can be."

Before Bobby could protest, Crowley put a hand on Paul's shoulder and they both disappeared.

"Crowley!" called Bobby anxiously. "CROWLEY! Ohhhh," he muttered ominously, "I am goin' to fill that asshole so full of holy water, consecrated iron shot and sanctified dog shit that he'll think he's died and come back as a chew toy to the Pope's lap dog..."

Approximately thirty seconds later, Crowley reappeared with Paul, who was as white as a sheet with his eyes bugging out of his head.

"Crowley," growled Bobby, "If you frighten him to an early death I will not be amused."

"He's fine," Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "We just had a little preview tour, to give Paul an idea of what he'd be getting into if he made a deal..."

"What the hell did you do?" demanded Bobby.

"Well, Paul here was a professional musician, you know," Crowley informed him, "Taught piano and voice, and had quite a career as a classical pianist, didn't you Paul?" The traumatised man nodded vaguely, staring at nothing. "So, I showed him an example of what he might experience if he went South."

"Paul," Bobby began carefully, guiding him to sit back down on the bench, "What did you see?"

Paul's mouth worked silently for a few moments, then he managed to get out one short sentence in a strangled whisper. "It was called... _Hell's Got Talent_."

"I thought Orgle's performance from Handel's _Creation_ was wonderful," enthused Crowley, "Of course, he can sing all four chorus parts and the soloists by himself, he is a fiend of hidden depths..."

"Crowley, why don't you make like a good little vulture, and flock off," said Bobby meaningfully.

"Will you give my offer some thought?" asked the King of Hell hopefully.

"I shall give it exactly as much serious consideration as it deserves," grunted Bobby, "Now, git." With a put-upon sigh, Crowley acquiesced.

"Maybe the deal thing is... not the best idea," Paul ventured a wobbly little smile.

"It's a completely fucking stupid idea, pardon my French," Bobby said firmly, "And I don't wanna hear any more about it."

"You won't," Paul promised fervently. "I may not know what happens when I go, but I know for a fact that I don't want to go..._ there_." He shuddered. "Although," he mused, "That fiend, with some training to get a bit more security in his upper register, he might really make something of himself..."

"Orgle has all of his hands full workin' for Crowley," chuckled Bobby, getting an astonishing mental picture of the cheerful diabolical PA wearing evening dress and dabbing at his various mouths with a large white handkerchief, "So I think it's probably just a hobby for him. So, why don't you dig your box up again. We're both too old for this sort o' foolishness, Paul."

"Maybe you're right," sighed the would-be deal-seeker, getting off the bench and kneeling stiffly by the flower bed, where he began to scoop soil away. "Oh well, the competition medallion I used does hold rather a lot of sentimental value..."

Paul hefted the small box out of the garden bed. Bobby froze.

"Paul," the old Hunter said carefully, "Can I have a look at that?"

"If you like," Paul smiled, "I won it when I was twenty-four, and I played Rachmaninov's third – my teacher fainted offstage just a few bars in..."

Bobby wasn't interested in the piano prize, though. What he was interested in was the box.

It was a work of art, really, a small, expertly constructed wooden box, with decorative inlays and very competent laquerwork. And it was the spitting image of the one that had been used to summon the shojo.

* * *

In defence of Crowley referring to Dean as a Pitbull, I think he has it more correct than he realises: loyal, adoring, very family-oriented, cheerfully terrible table manners, and capable of great affection, but if you threaten his family, watch out...

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Bringing You Delicious Goodies Involving Short Crust Pastry At The Table Of Life!*

*If anybody is going to make an 'American Pie' reference, go outside please.


	14. Chapter 14

_Hell's Got Talent_ is not like any other talent show you've ever seen. Imagine all the 'worst of' YouChoob clips you can find from all those shows (_Plop Idol, The Icks Factor, American Idle, Somewhere's Got No Talent,_ etc.), and put them all together. They look and sound like a Grammy award winning compilation compared to_ Hell's Got Talent_. The only bright spot was Orgle, the Susan Boyle of his own realm, but with even more untameable hair. I can also reveal that, for the role he played in inflicting One Direction upon the world, when he dies, Simon Cowell will go straight to Hell, and thence straight to the set of_ Hell's Got Talent_, where a waiting fiend will say "I don't mean to be rude, but..." then will fasten him to his seat with a nail gun where he will judge Hell's lack of talent for eternity or until his very being explodes, whichever happens first.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

"So, it turns out that Paul learned a fair bit about Japanese folklore from a friend's grandmother, when he was a kid," Bobby told Sam, "Includin' how to send a shojo after somebody. Learned how to make the boxes there, too. He makes 'em in the woodwork club. Said he just wanted to warn off the guy stealing booze, especially after he went after Maurice's good stuff."

"The residents are a bit protective of Maurice, aren't they?" Sam noted. "I haven't met him, but he must be a nice guy. He's really well liked."

"In a way, it's a positive thing, lookin' out for your fellow residents," Bobby decided, "Even if I don't approve of Paul's methods. But now I've spoken to him, and he's had a little taste of what Hell might be like, he won't be sendin' any more shojos after people."

"Well, I guess this job's wrapped up then," shrugged Sam. "I think Dean might be disappointed that he didn't get to gank anything."

"He may not be the only one who's disappointed, huh?" probed Bobby.

Sam's face flushed. "Well, I did have a date with George tonight," he admitted. "She says she going to cook me her grandmother's linguini marinara."

"Weeeeeell," mused Bobby, "I was plannin' on showin' the poker club how it's done once more, and tomorrow the Latin club are doing a reading of Trimalchio's Dinner from the _Satyricon_. I said I'd read Fortunata, heh heh... don't look at me like that, I got panto dame experience!"

"I thought pantomime dames were a British thing," Sam queried.

"You've read the _Satyricon,_ Sam," grinned Bobby. "I'm tellin' you, the character of Fortuna was a panto dame before panto dames were invented. Besides," he went on, "If we stay a couple more days, it'll give your brother a chance to heal up a bit. You know what a pain in the ass he is when he's laid up."

"Amen to that," muttered Sam. "Well, to be honest, I was kinda looking forward to the linguini..."

"If your brother heard you say that, he'd have a disgustin' inference to make," chortled Bobby. "So, off you go then, Gopher Sam."

"I'll kind of miss the Knitting Circle, you know," Sam mused. "The same way you miss an abscessed tooth after it's removed, maybe, but I'll miss then. They're growing old disgracefully, on their own terms. I kind of admire that."

"It's like your brother said, son," Bobby grinned again, "Growing older, that happens to us all, but growing up, that's optional."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

As night fell, Dean had decided to be grumpy.

He hated being laid up, especially without Sam around to annoy. It was boring. It was often painful. And it gave his mind time to think, and that was never a good thing. Especially as he got older.

He hated the fact that he could no longer bully his body into doing what he wanted the way he had for so long when he was Hunting full time; the spirit was willing, but the flesh wasn't just weak, it was totally, actively unco-operative.

His eyes, for example. Traitorous assholes. When had they stopped focusing automatically on close-in work? Shouldn't Sam be the one's whose sight was going, after he spent so much of his life working his eyes to death over books? And the shoulder, the trick shoulder, come on, every time it had been popped out, he'd put it back in again as soon as he could, why did it have to hold a grudge? And his knee. For fuck's sake, he didn't need his own on board barometer, that was what meteorology apps were for.

It sucked. He was a Hunter. He wasn't supposed to get old, he was supposed to die on the job, with his knife in some fugly's guts, grinning at it as he spat his own blood back in it's outraged face. Like his dogs. He could see their happy adoring faces clearly, even the ones that had died decades ago. Jimi. Jimi Junior. Lemmy, and his brother Lars. Xena. Her pup, Kane. His whelp Rio, the best and brightest out of the last litter he'd sired, whose own pups had thrown back her Hellhound heritage to an astonishing extent. They'd died on the job, saving his ass, and gone to Wait, leaving him to get old, and creaky, and turn into a grumpy old man. Yeah, it sucked. If it wasn't for the Dean Winchester Prime Directive of Look After Sammy, he might well have hauled off and gone looking for the biggest, baddest, nastiest motherfucker he could track down to attack it with a teaspoon. A sharpened teaspoon, of course, a sharpened silver teaspoon, he intended to kill the damned thing before it killed him...

He watched the wispy cloud scudding across the sky, streaking past the stark white full moon. On a night like this, he should be out and chasing down the fugly assholes that came out for that part of the lunar cycle. What the fuck was it about the full moon that did that? He should ask Sam about it. Or Bobby. One of them would know. But he was stuck here, damaged and disintegrating. He shivered, and scrabbled for the bedclothes. That was another thing he hated about getting old – he felt the cold like he never did when younger. In fact, he hadn't realised just how cold it was. Seriously, it was cold...

"Mr Winchester?" asked a voice behind him. He whipped around to see a cheerful middle-aged lady in a nurse's uniform. "Oh, I'm sorry," her face turned regretful, "I didn't mean to startle you. Do you need anything?"

"Who are you?" he demanded, still wallowing in the shallows of the Sea Of Grump.

"I'm Audrey. I'm the night nurse," she smiled at him. "You won't have seen me around during daylight hours; I work nights, and it's easier to stay on the one shift, if you're going to work nights." Her expression turned concerned. "Are you cold?"

"Well, yeah," he nodded, pulling the bedclothes around himself. "I hadn't noticed until just now."

"I'll get you another blanket," Audrey said, leaving then returning quickly with a waffle blanket. "Here, try this."

"Ooohhhh, it's warm," noted Dean as she threw the blanket over his bed and tucked it around him.

"Good isn't it?" she grinned at him. "There's a warmer in the supplies room. It's this building. It's really old. It used to be a hospital. They've done a wonderful job of upgrading it, but sometimes, the heating just isn't what is should be. So," she gazed sympathetically at him, "Can't sleep?"

"Not really," he admitted. "It's too much like a hospital." He whacked resentfully at the raised railing on the bed. "I hate hospitals."

"You and everybody else I've ever met," she nodded in agreement. "They're not nice places to hang around. They're full of sick people! I advise you to avoid them at all costs. Escape as soon as you can!" That made him laugh. "I can get you something to help you sleep."

"No thanks," he shook his head, "I don't like getting zonked out."

"Well, it's up to you," she told him, "But when I began my training, the Matron always recommended a nice cup of sweet tea or hot chocolate, with a generous dose of medicinal brandy. Making it up was one of the first jobs I had to do, as a trainee."

Dean sat up carefully. "You have brandy?" he asked plaintively.

"Strictly for medicinal purposes," she wagged a finger at him. "It will help you to warm up, too. But of course, such treatment can only be administered with the co-operation of the patient..."

"I'm a co-operative patient," he said promptly, lying back and snuggling under his blanket. "Look at me co-operating!"

"Well, if you really need it to sleep," she said, "I suppose I can prepare you some. For medical purposes."

"Medical purposes, definitely," he nodded. "Hey, you won't get into trouble, will you?" he asked. "If Matron Schultz finds out, she'll hit the roof."

"Are you kidding?" Audrey laughed. "She'll never admit to it officially," she confided, "But Matron Schultz has been known to prescribe medicinal brandy on her wing."

"Matron Schultz?" Dean sounded incredulous. "Are we talking about the same woman here? Thundergusset? The Iron Maiden? She who is the arbiter of how civilised people do or do not behave?"

"The very same," Audrey confirmed. "Oh, she might come across as a hard case, but she's real old school. At base, the most important thing to her is the welfare and happiness of her residents."

"She tried to shut down our scooter racing," Dean griped, trying not to think that he sounded like a three-year-old whose game of How Many Mini Marshmalllows Can I Stuff Up One Nostril has been cancelled by a responsible adult."

"With good reason, it would seem," Audrey laughed again, but not unkindly. "She really cares for all her patients, her residents," she reiterated, something steely in her expression, "I admire her enormously. Did you know that when she was a student nurse, working in South America, she faced down a man wielding a machete and threatening to kill his wife because he believed that the child she was having wasn't his? Ha! When Mr Beauclerc was here, she watched his cholesterol like a hawk, but when he was diagnosed with an inoperable tumour, she organised for one of her family members to smuggle some raw milk cheese into the country for him, after he said the one thing he really wanted to do was to taste proper Roquefort again before he died. Most of the staff here now don't know that," she waved a hand dismissively, "The kids, only an old-timer like me would know that. Nothing, nothing, is more important to her than her residents. Nothing is too much trouble for them. And if anything threatens them, you just watch out. I'd be proud to turn out just like her." She shook her head, smiling "Oh, will you listen to me rambling. Well, now you've found me out. I'm the President of the Matron Schultz Fan Club."

"Well, it sounds as if you could do worse for a role model," Dean smiled back. "Even if she isn't a big fan of motor racing."

"She is an inspiration." Audrey headed for the door. "I'll be back shortly with your drink."

"Audrey?" Dean called plaintively.

"Yes, Mr Winchester?"

"Can I have a double? I'm really really wide awake."

She winked. "You got it."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You seem cheerful," noted Sam when he dropped by the next day to see his brother. "I mean, cheerful-ish, considering you're laid up."

"I just so happen to have had a pretty good night's sleep, Sammy," Dean grinned, "Thanks to awesome Audrey the night nurse, who not only has a great rack and a great smile, but her warm blankets and her midnight snack pie and her medicinal brandy proved even more effective than being bored to sleep by you. "

"What?" Sam looked perplexed. "Dean, are you telling me the night staff fed you brandy and pie in the middle of the night?"

"It worked," sighed Dean happily. "I actually managed to get some sleep. I wonder what else she does after dark. She was quite keen on the idea of a resident's every need being met in order to keep him happy..."

"Can we try to keep this above the belt, just for a minute or so?" humphed Sam. "I should warn Audrey about you. Although I don't remember the name from the rosters when I was checking on Killjoy."

"She's the night nurse," Dean said dismissively. "So, speaking of Killjoy, any signs of something small and white and Japanese wanting to kill him for messing with Bingo?"

"Actually, Bobby and I have solved the case," Sam informed his brother. "Bobby worked out that it was one of the residents who speaks Japanese. He makes those little lacquered boxes in woodwork. But Crowley took him for a guided tour of Hell, and he's promised to stop."

"Crowley?" Dean frowned. "What's that asshole doing here?"

"Trying to headhunt Bobby again," Sam grinned, "And apparently willing to curry favour."

"Okay, so, job's done, we can get out of here, right?" said Dean hopefully, "Meaning, I can get out of here, right? Although it's a shame. Audrey really has a great rack..."

"Meaning, as soon as you're fit to travel, we'll go," Sam said firmly.

"What? I am fit to travel!" insisted Dean.

"When Matron says you are, then we'll go," Sam smirked smugly.

"Oh, come on!" Dean practically whined, "At least get me out of here!"

"What about Audrey, she of the rack, the pie and the brandy?" queried Sam. Dean subsided to mutinous muttering. "All right, then," he went on, with a small stab of uncharitable satisfaction. "It'll only be a day or two, bro, you'll survive."

"I hate you," grumbled Dean. "Oh, I did mean to ask, though," his tone became casual, "How's things with George?"

The flush that crept onto his brother's face was all the answer Dean needed. "I only ask," he went on silkily, "Because the windows here overlook the car park, and one of the staff saw you both arrive for work in my Baby, suggesting you both went home in my Baby, and since you were going to dinner at her place last night..."

"Who said I was going to dinner at her place last night?" demanded Sam hotly, with a blazing _Bitchface_ #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk).

"Everybody," Dean grinned maddeningly. "No secrets in this place, remember? Hey, I'm not complaining," Dean continued breezily, "I'm proud, bro, and her workmates are pleased for George, they say she's got a smile on her face and a spring in her step..."

"Jerk," muttered Sam, going red to his ears as he left.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The day passed more quickly than Dean had feared it would. His Twilight Towers buddies came by to smuggle him some beer, play some cards, and fill him in on the latest scuttlebutt, which included the fact that Killjoy had been picketing Bingo again, a certain something had allegedly manifested between George and his brother Sam, and Carolina and her class had been petitioning Sam to pose for them, then Knitting Circle had cheerfully joined in with trying to convince him to do so. Dean repaid their visit by giving them the gory details of his brother's tryst, and if he didn't have any details and had to make them up as he went, well, he figured that a bunch of guys who'd smuggle him beer deserved something for their efforts.

"Wow," even Mike seemed impressed, "Just... wow."

"I taught him everything he knows," Dean affirmed proudly. "Not everything I know, obviously, one lifetime wouldn't be enough for that..."

They hadn't been gone for long when a mild uproar broke out in the medical centre. Dean listened carefully to the snatches of conversation he could pick out, but his ears really pricked up when he realised that it was a member of staff who had been brought to the see the doctor, in a state of great agitation.

"Now, Mr Kenneth," he heard the doctor who'd treated him say in a reassuring voice, "If you can just calm down and let me have a look, I'll see how many are up there..."

"Calm down? _Calm down_?" Killjoy squawked in frightened outrage. "I was attacked, and, and, and, I was violated! She shoved those Bingo balls right up my..."

"Mr Kenneth," the doctor persisted, "If you will just hold still..."

"What if she followed me here?" Killjoy suddenly yelped, "Is somebody watching the door? Don't let her in! If you see a Japanese woman with long hair, don't let her in!"

"Nobody will be permitted to come in here, Mr Kenneth," a nurse reassured him.

"How will you keep her out?" the man Killjoy wailed, clearly sliding towards hysterics, "I locked the door behind me! She got through a locked door! Now she's coming to get me! She's coming to get me! She's going to shove more Bingo balls up my..."

Dean grabbed for his own phone, and hit speed dial. "Bobby? We got a problem. Killjoy the Anti-Bingo Crusader has been brought into medical – it sounds like we might have another shojo."

* * *

When I was two years old, the game was See How Many Sultanas I Can Shove Up My Left Nostril, but mini marshmallows would work too.

Incidentally, keep an eye out in November for the next upcoming season of _America's Got Ballot_. Having heard some of the competitors auditioning, sounds like it's going to be a riot. I warn you now, though, I see another picture of a Lady Of A Certain Age holding a sign proclaiming that she's 'teabagging for Jesus', I retain the right to run screaming, because we might know what she means, but nonetheless it prompts unbidden a mental picture that nobody needs.

Reviews are the Winchesters Of Your Choice Passing You Mini Marshmallows To Stuff Up Your Nose/Stir Into Your Brandy-Laced Hot Chocolate/Pelt Simon Cowell In The Talent Quest Of Life!*

*If anybody wants a private audition with the W.O.Y.C., remember, hands on the desk at all times.


	15. Chapter 15

Oh, I has teh sick, some ghastly, ghastly viral lurgy that I blame on the people at work who have small children. Or sunspots. Or global warming. I have never had a chest infection before, and I never want one again; so many damned pills, I rattle when I walk. I beg the indulgence of teh Denizens, because I've been feeling too oogy to look at a screen. All I can do is lie groaning on the bed, call pitifully for another cup of tea, and weakly attempt to make the greyhound get her arse off my pillow...

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Paul was bent over the work bench, completely absorbed in his project, when Bobby arrived with a face like thunder.

"Hi, Bobby," he began, his smile fading to confusion. "Is something wrong?"

"You bet something's wrong," snarled Bobby, "Killjoy Kenneth has been taken to the medical centre, and the way he's carryin' on, it sounds like he's got a shojo after him."

"A shojo?" Paul looked genuinely bewildered.

"A shojo," confirmed Bobby, "He was messin' with the Bingo cage, and now he's hysterical in medical, screamin' about keeping the 'Japanese woman with long hair' away from him." Bobby's face held a promise of mayhem. "You promised, Paul! You promised you wouldn't send any more!"

"I didn't!" exclaimed Paul. "I didn't! Bobby, if there's a shojo after Killjoy, it wasn't me!"

"Well, who, then?" demanded Bobby, unconviced. "Because you've got form, Paul. There was Scrooge Abraham the embezzler, the guy dealing in body parts, the guy with the burst stomach, and Roger, about whom the less said the better, and then Geoffrey Pisshead the thief with expensive tastes in other people's booze..."

"What?" Paul just looked mystified. "Bobby, that's... Bobby, I only sent the one."

"Because from where I'm standin'... what?" Bobby stumbled to a halt.

"I only sent the one," Paul repeated, "The one that dealt with Pisshead. Shojos have an affinity for alcohol, remember? They wouldn't have been attracted to the others so readily, but Pisshead was marinated in it. And poor Maurice, it was the least I could do! And I couldn't send another one even if I wanted to. Look." He showed the item he was working on to Bobby. "These boxes take months to do properly. The joinery. The panels. The inlays. The hinges. I do them all traditionally, by hand, the way Mr Okimura taught me. The lacquering alone takes several weeks to get right. Of course, I don't use real lacquer, it's a polyurethane varnish, but the principles are the same, you have to thin it out and use multiple coats and cut it right back..."

Bobby's stared at Paul, his mind whirling with questions. "So... if you only sent one shojo, what the hell has been killing off the less honourably behaved members of the staff here? And what the hell shoved a selection of Bingo balls up Killjoy's nose? He said it was a Japanese woman with long hair, it got through a locked door and snuck up on him..." his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Paul, did Pisshead steal any expensive booze from you?"

"No," shrugged Paul, "I'm more of a beer drinker."

"Then why did you feel some sort of obligation to punish the guy who was stealing from others?" pressed Bobby. "Why does it matter that someone stole booze from Maurice?"

"He's an okay old guy," said Paul defensively, "It's the only thing left to him, he should at least be allowed to enjoy that one vice. I warned Pisshead first, Bobby, I really did, I told him to stop, or he'd regret it. He just laughed. That's what they do, they just laugh, because they think we're old and helpless..."

Bobby suspected that Paul knew more than he was saying, but he would let it go for now. "Fine," he snapped, "Well, enjoy your woodwork." Squaring his shoulders, he stalked out of the room, pulling out his phone as he went.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"Do you believe him?" asked Dean later that evening, when Sam and Bobby came to his room to discuss the latest developments in their job.

"Yeah, I do," Bobby nodded, "Though I think he knows more than he's sayin'. But it leaves us pretty much back at square one: so, we gotta spread our net wider."

"I've been wondering about Matron," Dean lowered his voice, "The way Audrey talked about her, she'd do anything for her residents. She's a lady who's been around, and I think she'd be totally capable of summoning something supernatural to deal with any member of staff who even thought about doing anything nasty to her residents. I mean, she strikes me as the sort of person who could smack down a wendigo, never mind a human." He mimed slapping at an unseen opponent. " 'Stop eating human flesh at once, you disgusting individual! Civilised ex-people do _not_ behave like that!' "

"Well, I've been wondering about Audrey," responded Sam, "While I was going through rosters, I didn't notice an Audrey, and when I went looking, I couldn't find one."

"Could be a red herring, Sam," Bobby cautioned, "The names people use every day are sometimes not the ones they're born with – you wouldn't find me on a roster or payroll as 'Bobby', I'd be 'Robert', for instance."

"And my buddy Mike is technically Malcolm," shrugged Dean. "Come on, Audrey has a great rack, and got me brandy and pie for medical purposes! What sort of a fugly fetches a man brandy and pie after hours then stands around looking totally attractive?"

"Well, there was that cult who plied you with beer then tried to get you to fornicate yourself to death," Sam reminded him, "Then, there was the witch who baked cursed pies, and the one you stole instead of destroying ended up with us swapping bodies with the Tiem and Zan the gargoyles, then there was the time you did shots with a rugaru who liked her meat marinated, then there was the time you did lunch with a ghoul who fed you lemon meringue pie until you could barely move to get away, then there was the time that a witch got you drunk and decided to bake you into a great big apple pie..."

"Yeah, but I ate my way out and ganked her," Dean waved a hand dismissively. "And had buckets of delicious cinnamon-seasoned filling for days!"

"How your pancreas ever forgave you for that, I will never know," humphed Sam crossly. "Anyway, I've been trying to track the last known movements of the offending individuals here at Twilight Towers before they died, going through staff lists and rosters." Sam made a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to relevance. "We knew that Roger The Unsanitary left his, er, souvenir for the Knitting Circle. When I first started as their Gopher, one of them said something about hoping I'd last longer than some of the others, and then another said that I would, so long as I behaved myself. I thought that they were talking about others who'd, well, 'fled screaming' was the phrase George actually used, on account of their taste in literature..."

"maybe the Knitting Circle could be summoning things and dealing out rough justice," mused Dean. "After all, they got you to read them their ladyporn, that had to involve some sort of spell-casting, I can't even get you to look at a stick mag."

"...And I found out that the guy who lifted half of a black forest cake was supposed to be delivering it to the Embroidery group," Sam went on, throwing a hefty Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One) in Dean's direction. "Maybe I could see if I could swap trolleys, and..."

"That's unlikely to go down well, son," Bobby grinned, "Seeing as you're the Knittin' Circle's favourite Gopher, and one who hasn't run screamin'. Plus, you got a lovely readin' voice."

"Not only would they be reluctant to swap you," Dean leered, "But you gotta remember, the Knitting Circle and the Embroidery group are kind of like the local equivalent of the Jedi and the Sith."

"Bloods and Crips in hairnets and cardigans," confirmed Bobby with a grin. "Jets and Sharks with knittin' needles and needlework hoops instead of switchblades. Knittin' Circle would never stand for it."

"You're probably right," agreed Sam, recalling George's explanation of the retirement facility as a miniaturised version of the wider community, along with its own complex set of inhabitants, groups and social conventions.

There were some straightforward unspoken rules: 'Bingo is sacred' was just one. 'The contents of the refreshments trolley are sacrosanct' was another. Other community rituals, mores and interactions were more complicated. There were jocks – Dean seemed to have fit right in with a group of them – there were nerds, there were party girls, there were ice queens and revheads (although he wasn't exactly sure if mobility scooters revved as such) and a myriad of different identity groups, including their own equivalents of grey gang warfare. He'd laughed when George had explained to him about the enmity that could exist, for reasons that had probably long been forgotten by the actual antagonists, between the most unlikely groups. For example, the aquaerobics collective icily ignored the cake decorating club, and vice-versa. The woodwork club made a point of snubbing the electronics club, who returned the favour in spades. The tap-dancing club would cut any member of the harmonica orchestra dead anytime, anywhere they met, and the Hooters (as the harmonica players called themselves) liked it just fine that way. The weapons may have been vicious put-downs and filthy looks rather than firearms and blades, but the tribalism could be just as potent, and the various groups had had much, much longer to hone their dislike of each other.

"Well, while it's quiet tonight, I might go and have a bit more of a look around where Killjoy was ambushed. If it wasn't a shojo, whatever it was might've left some clues as to what it is," Sam decided.

"As soon as he's let out of medical, Dean can go and join the Embroidery ladies, see what he can find," Bobby announced.

"_What?"_ Dean's eyes bugged in disbelief. "Bobby, you cannot be serious!"

"Look into my eye, boy," Bobby snapped. "We need intel, they're a possibility, Sam can't go, so you're it."

"No!" yapped Dean like a three-year-old who's been told that he has to stop riding around in his new pedal Ferrari with realistic engine noises and oogah horn, and go play dress-ups and Tea Parties with his female cousins instead. "Bobby, no! The Living Sex God does NOT do embroidery!"

"So, you're willing to pose stark naked for Carolina's drawing class, but not be seen dead doing needlework?" Sam snorted in amusement.

"I don't know how to do embroidery," Dean shot back sulkily.

"That's why you're going along to their gathering," Bobby beamed at him, "Because you'd like to learn. That's just how secure you are in your masculinity."

"Come on, how hard can it be?" asked Sam. "You get the needle, you get the fabric in the frame. Then you go, in, out, in, out, in, out, in out – that idea at least has to be something you recognise."

"But... they guys will laugh at me!" Dean practically wailed.

"Tough. We gotta start investigatin' other avenues," Bobby cut in, "I think Paul knows more than he lets on. That probably means we can infer that others here know more than they might have said already. So, just be careful. We already know, there aint no secrets in a place like this." He frowned at Dean. "The well-distributed tale of my romantic reunion with my lost love Matron, and my astonishin' performance with her at the nurse's desk, is a testament to that."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Dean was in another grumpy mood, at least partially induced by the idea of having to go learn embroidery, when Audrey came to check on him late that night, bringing him another pre-warmed waffle blanket.

"You think any harder, I'm going to start getting a headache," she grumbled good-naturedly as she fluffed out his pillows, straightened his bedclothes and tucked the extra blanket around him.

"Sorry," he smiled ruefully, snuggling into his blanket. "I've just got a bit on my mind."

"It's one of the hazards of advancing age," she told him smilingly. "We get a lot of that here in medical. Well, except for Killjoy Kenneth," she smiled wider. "He's got a lot up his nose. I'm afraid my professionalism has been irreparably compromised by that episode. I had terrible trouble not laughing out loud when I heard about that."

"That can't be the weirdest thing you've ever seen," prompted Dean.

Audrey looked thoughtful. "Well," she went on slowly, "There was the aftermath of The Great Tea Trolley Disaster – not something anybody could forget in a hurry – and there was the Noodle Incident..."

"They sound ominous," Dean grinned. "How long have you been working here, Audrey?"

"Well, it seems like forever, is all I can say," she sighed melodramatically, then peered keenly at him. "Are you okay, honey?" she asked with concern.

"Yeah," Dean smiled back, "It's just... Thirty, twenty years ago, I wouldn't have been laid up by a little step-off from a scooter. Hell, I probably would've rolled out of a fall from a ladder without breaking anything. It's just..." he waved a hand helplessly, "I don't feel old on the inside. I don't want to be old."

"Oh, honey," she gave him a genuine smile, "Nobody here does, but it's the way things go. Old Father Time will catch up with us all in the end. Even Maurice. Even Matron Schultz."

"Nope," Dean shook his head, "Nope, Matron Schultz will never die, the T-800 series Terminators can run for 120 years at least on their standard fuel cells, then all she has to do is recharge..."

"I dare you to say that to her face," Audrey rolled her eyes.

"Are you kidding?" he yelped. "And get shot with a phased plasma rifle in the 40 watt range? It'd be hasta la vista, Dean."

"You could load that to watch, if you can't sleep," Audrey suggested, indicating the AV unit.

"Or, I could have a delicious brandy-laced hot chocolate for medicinal purposes," he proposed hopefully.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I've seen puppies that can't look that wistful," she snorted. "All right, I'll go get it."

"Do you think there might be any of that peach pie from dinner left over?" he added his most winning smile.

"I'm sure that I can locate some," she assured him as she left.

He slouched back into his warm blanket, sighing a little. The full moon was bright in the cloudless sky. It must've been the damp of the old building, because it shouldn't have been that cold...

It was only because he'd spent more than fifty years as a Hunter than he noticed it: a flicker of movement caught his eye, then a dark shadow moving against the darker shades of the trees outside. It moved with the foliage as it swayed and shivered in the light breeze; deliberate movement.

Carefully, he sat up, eyes following the shifting, disappearing outline as he reached for his phone.

The human brain has evolved to look for and recognise patterns. It's what makes us see the Man in the Moon, the Face of Mars, animals in the constellations and the Virgin Mary on pieces of burnt toast. It's what makes us jump and scream at a small tangle of thread that, against the carpet, initially looks like a spider. Once we know the shape of something, we can recognise it, even if it isn't really there.

But this pattern really was there, and Dean swore softly to himself as both Bobby and Sam failed to answer their phones.

Because the pattern he could see, moving carefully but deliberately across the background of darkened greenery, was unmistakeably the shape of an Old North werewolf.

Still swearing, he carefully and silently let down the railing of his bed, and, trying not to wince, rolled his way quietly out of the room.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Sam made his way around the dim hall, flashlight in hand. He inspected the room, looking for any clue as to what might have stalked Killjoy Kenneth, scared the hell out of him, and performed a naso-pharyngeal Bingo ball enhancement on him. If it wasn't for the fact that they were trying to track down something that had killed people, he thought to himself, it would actually be pretty damned funny.

There was nothing that gave any hint whatsoever that some fugly had been there, and he'd had a lifetime of learning what to look for. Huffing in frustration, he carefully opened the cupboard where the Bingo equipment was kept.

He inspected the rolling cage in its cradle, and quickly found Killjoy's inept attempt to disable it. Shaking his head and smiling a little to himself, he took his knife, and poked at the axle. If Killjoy had used Krazy Glue, it would've been a much more fiddly job to fix, but it was just a bit of craft glue; he gave it a couple of strategic pokes, then careful wiggled the cage. With a small cracking noise that sounded very loud in the quiet dimness, the cage rolled and spun freely.

Well, he thought to himself, at least he'd achieved something, even if it was only to fix a Bingo cage. He reached for his cell to call Dean then Bobby to let them know that he'd come up with nothing.

It wasn't that he wasn't paying attention – he'd been a Hunter too long for that – it was just that it was so quiet that he didn't hear it. And by the time his Hunter's senses told him that there was something behind him, it was too fast, and it was too late.

He had a quick impression of an angry Japanese woman with long hair before something connected with his head, and he was out cold.

* * *

Since the Denizens wanted some Winchesters In Peril - you do love some Winchesters In Peril, don't you? - I thought I'd see what I could wring out of the bunny. We might even shove Sam in a cupboard or something. Leahelisabeth does love her some Sam-In-A-Box (although whether that holds while they're Grumpy Old Men remains to be seen). Sadly, it cannot find a way to work Castiel into this one. He's very busy being Sheriff of Heaven. And it's no fun if he just turns up, does his Eye Sex Stare Of Doom, cocks his head and announces 'The houskeeper did it, with the candlestick, in the drawing room'.

Ah, the Great Tea Trolley Disaster and the Noodle Incident - does anybody remember those?

Reviews are the... oh, whichever character you choose, doing whatever you like, with as much chocolate as you want. Please send me reviews, I feel totally lousy and they might cheer me up a bit. :-(


	16. Chapter 16

I think your reviews are making me feel better. At least I'm not gurling so much when I try to breathe.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Dean rolled quickly and carefully past Matron's desk and lifted the antique silver letter opener that he'd noticed the first time he'd been called in to be told that civilised people did not behave like that, then out to the garden. He could see where the thing was headed, and he intended to be in its way. He intended to stop it.

He smiled to himself as he backed his chair into the foliage. Be careful what you wish for, went the adage; well, now it looked like he was going to get his wish, after all. His thoughts went briefly to Sam, and RJ, and Bobby; they'd be fine, he decided, they'd have each other, and they'd console each other saying it was how he'd have wanted to go. His eyes stung briefly as he thought of his grandsons, the gruesome twosome, but they had family to watch them, and love them, and they'd grow up being told that their grandfather had died doing what he'd always done: the family business, saving people. Yeah, his family would be all right.

The breeze brought the wolf's scent to him, and he recognised the musky, canine smell of a male. So much the better; it would be easier to pull the stunt he was planning with a male. That was the theory, anyway. What he was about to do was a last-available-option, kill-it-at-all-costs move that had come out of his brother's limitless nerdness more than ten years ago. He could still remember that afternoon...

_"So, Dr Doolittle, have you figured out a better way to kill one of these things yet?" asked Dean breezily, as he threw the can of beer._

_Andrew Jaeger stood, in wolf form, as Sam looked up from where he was carefully measuring the lengths and angles of Andrew's extended hind limb. The male werewolf extended one long, hairy arm, plucked the can from the air, carefully popped a claw through one end, and shotgunned it._

_"Kinda busy here, Dean," Sam had announced with an annoyed huff, making some more notes. Dean grinned inwardly; the shoulder injury that Sam had sustained while they were cleaning out a nest of vampires had put his little brother out of action for several months. His what-makes-werewolves-tick research project had begun as something to keep him occupied during the long recuperation required by a human body no longer in its prime, but had become an earnest effort to compile a definitive treatise on the Old North breed. "Okay, Andrew, can you load up like you're going to pounce on Dean and, oh, I don't know, rip his tongue out with your teeth, or something."_

_The large werewolf managed to pull a horrified expression and make a pitiful whimpering noise that sounded remarkably like 'Eewwwww', but obliged, sitting back on his haunches as if preparing to spring._

_"I'll do it, if I can use a pair of pliers," offered Ronnie hopefully from behind Dean, "But I'm not going to eat it afterwards. I know where it's been."_

_"Nobody is going to be removing the Living Sex God's second most talented organ from his body," Dean announced firmly. "You know, technically, Sam, you're crawling all over a naked man with a tape measure. That's kind of weird."_

_"I'll just go get the pliers," muttered Bobby._

_"What exactly is this all about?" Dean had asked._

_"Levers, basically," Sam replied, taking another measurement. "Limbs work pretty much like mechanical levers. I'm looking at how Old North werewolves generate such forces when they attack. I think it's to do with limb lengths, and the siting of the insertion points. It would explain why they fight the way they do, too..."_

_"Sam," Dean began in a warning tone, "Before you go anywhere near his insertion point with a measuring tape, remember that his pair-bonded mate is standing right here, and..."_

_"Oh, gawd," moaned Ronnie. "He's talking about musculature, you berk. Look," she held out one arm. "The bicep works the forearm like a third order lever; the effort between the fulcrum and the load." She flexed her arm, and poked near her elbow. "The human load point, the insertion, is close to the fulcrum, the elbow joint. Now, if you look at the wolf..." she stepped off the porch stairs and grabbed Andrew's arm. "The forearm is much longer proportionally. Standing upright, the hand comes practically to the hock, if you would just demonstrate... thank you, dear...and, the insertion is much larger, and further from the fulcrum. Now, if a and b are the distances from the fulcrum to the load and the effort respectively, then the force will be..."_

_"What the fuck?" Dean blinked. "You're starting to talk like Francis here. Is something happening? Is Francis contagious? Sam, have you been rubbing off on Ronnie, or something? No, wait, before you answer that, remember that her pair-bonded mate is right in front of you and you're horribly close to his insertion point..."_

_"Before I was bitten, I was enrolled to study Engineering at the University of Queensland, thank you so very much," grumbled Ronnie._

_"Dean! Shut! Up!" yapped Sam. "Look, what we have here is an unheard-of opportunity to examine Old North werewolf anatomy! It's an amazing mix of humanoid and canoid aspects – for example, I suspect that the werewolf shoulder is much more stable than the human one, even though the design is pretty much the same. It's not like anybody's ever been able to dissect one, since they revert when they die. God, what I'd give to get one of you guys into an MRI and get you to shift, even one limb..."_

_"This is all very interesting, I'm sure, Dr Gunter von Hagens," Dean rolled his eyes, "But are you going to find out anything that tells me how to kill a feral one more efficiently? Like, if I'm trapped with nothing but a silver knife, how do take down an alpha male? You know, something practical?"_

_"Actually, yes," replied Sam a little snippily. "The length of the limbs means that they generate their most power at about arm's length. Get inside that, and they're crowded by their own anatomy."_

_"If you ever find yourself in that situation, you're as good as dead anyway," Ronnie had told him matter-of-factly, "But if you can get in close enough first, you can put the knife in under the sternum."_

_"Which is more canine, and a lot longer than you'd expect," added Sam._

_"Are you serious?" Dean's tone was suddenly interested._

_"Deadly," she grinned back. "A male aiming to kill you will chase, and expect you to run, or at least try to keep your distance. Out at arm's length, he can just take off your head with one paw." She stood away from Andrew, and nodded to him to demonstrate, which he did. "But if you do what he's not expecting, and charge in at him," she nudged up against her mate's chest, "He can't use his strength through his claws. You have to get down here," she indicated a spot that was a lot lower than Dean would've anticipated, "And come up. Of course, as soon as he realises that you're too close to swipe, he'll just grapple you and bite you, or maybe pull your kidneys out through your back, and you're dead," she smiled, "But at least you'd have the satisfaction of knowing that you've killed him too."_

_"You really think that would work?" he asked._

_"You ever find yourself in that position, you got nothing to lose," she shrugged. "And I think it would. A feral male won't be thinking strategy, he'll just be thinking: prey."_

_"What about a female?" asked Sam._

_"Oh, if it's a female, you're screwed," Ronnie beamed, "Because they fight sneakier and dirtier, and will be prepared for an opponent to do the same."_

_"Let's give it a try!" piped an enthusiastic voice from behind them. Dean groaned._

_"RJ," he began, "It was only a theoretical discussion, I don't think..."_

_But it was too late: Connor was shucking out of his clothing with the ease of practice whilst RJ scouted the ground for a suitable stick, and before either father could protest, the two juveniles, human and werewolf, stood facing each other, grinning._

_"That's something else that hasn't been documented," Sam commented, "Connor hasn't hit puberty yet – you see how his proportions are a lot more humanoid than Andrew's? And he's hardly any taller than his human self."_

_"Hey, guys," Dean warned, as Andrew whuffed in concern behind him, "Just be careful, okay?"_

_Of course, 'careful' to a couple of eleven-year-olds translated as 'anything up to but just short of killing each other', and after a few pokes and prods at Connor's sternum to find the base of it, RJ backed off, then charged in._

_"They won't hurt each other," Bobby grinned, putting a reassuring hand on each father's shoulder as their offspring grappled and wrestled, "And look at it this way – if Connor ever has to deal with some asshole who's trying to kill him, it'll give him some practice in what to watch out for."_

_"Relax, fellas," Ronnie had reassured them, "Have you ever watched pups play? All juvenile predators play like this – it's how they learn. I'd say that includes Hunters and werewolves."_

_Dean had had to admit, watching his boy tackle his werewolf friend, they were enjoying themselves. He'd also felt a certain stab of pride, watching RJ experiment with his approaches, his moves, his strikes, looking for the best way to take advantage of werewolf anatomy. The kid was smart; he was going to be a great Hunter._

_There was a sudden streak of silver-grey across the yard, and yelps of surprise from both boys as another shape barrelled into them both. A smaller wolf, a female, snatched the stick from RJ's hand, cuffed both boys soundly, and shot off across the yard._

_Connor let out an angry roar that was almost comically high-pitched, and RJ bellowed in outrage. The two of them set off in hot pursuit of Connor's sister, nine year old Sabine._

_"I told you," Ronnie laughed, "The females fight a lot dirtier."_

_"Give it up guys," chortled Bobby, "She's faster than either of you, and you know it."_

_"Give it back, you little bitch!" bellowed RJ, as Connor roared again._

_The young female werewolf responded by dropping the stick she held in her mouth, squatting, and peeing on it._

_The three kids had turned into a squabbling, grappling, wrestling pack, and some of the dogs had joined in the fun. Dean had been torn between breaking up the scrap, and laughing until he could hardly breathe. Eventually Andrew, still battling to hide his own amusement, had waded in and started gently cuffing human, canine and lupine combatants apart._

_It had been one of those moments of RJ's childhood that had stayed with him. The kid's childhood had been anything but ordinary, but watching his boy gleefully rassling with his friend had been such a simple, normal thing, the memory had stuck with him._

_Later that day, Dean had tried some close-combat moves with Andrew, with Sam furiously taking notes, and even though he knew that the wolf was only sparring and wouldn't hurt him, making himself get up close and personal with seven-plus feet of Old North alpha male when all his Hunter's instincts were telling him to get the fuck out of there was more disconcerting than he was prepared to let on. It quickly became apparent that Ronnie was right: if the Hunter was quick enough, and could keep his head for the split second it would take, he could get in and gut the wolf just as it was killing him. A piece of information that was good to know, but he hoped he'd never have to use it._

He heard the heavy tread of the monster approach. Tightening his grip on the letter opener, he focused on the job at hand, and waited until it was almost on top of him. He was only going to get one shot at this.

Standing on his good leg, he pushed out of his chair.

"Hey Fido!"

The moment he saw the werewolf pause in surprise, he launched himself forward.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Bobby had decided he'd had enough of trying to winkle details out of residents, and decided to go straight to the source. Talk to the butcher, not the block. After a quick consultation of the layout of the place, he headed for Maurice's room. They guy was an elderly night-owl, he'd picked up that much, but what he really wanted to know was why so many of the residents felt protective towards him.

He wasn't sure what to expect, but what he didn't expect was to hear singing as he approached.

_Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you..._

The door of the nearby dayroom was open, and all the lights were on. There was the noise associated with a large gathering of people.

_Happy Birthday, dear Maurice..._

He made his way to the back of the crowd, and peered through.

An elderly man with thinning grey hair and a rheumy-eyed expression gazed cheerfully around the room. He sat at the table, a strange-looking item on a decorated plate before him.

_Happy Birthday to youuuuuuu!_

Three candles in the shape of numerals were perched atop the dark mass on the plate.

_Hip hip – hooray! _

Maurice beamed at the gathering.

_Hip hip – hooray! _

He leaned in, and rather than blowing them out, pinched out all three candles.

_Hip hip – hooray! _

The candles spelled out 147.

Maurice the birthday boy picked up the knife and carefully sank it into the odd-looking cake. Only, it wasn't a cake...

Applause broke out as he closed his eyes, made his wish, then finished cutting all the way through the large blood sausage.

"To the birthday boy!" someone toasted, and everybody raised their glasses. Maurice grasped the bottle beside him and returned the gesture before swigging heartily from it.

"Bobby?" he turned to see Paul smiling at him. "Bobby! Oh, how wonderful you could turn up! Here, do you want a drink?"

"What I really want," Bobby muttered, "Is a word with Maurice the birthday boy..."

"Of course!" Paul beamed. "Come on, it's time you met him anyway. We're just waiting for one more."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Dean hadn't spent a lot of time dwelling on how it would happen if he died on a job. The possibilities were numerous; most of the fuglies they tackled were capable of inflicting fatal physical damage. If he was lucky, it would be quick. He'd assumed that however it happened, it would be untidy, bloody, and quite possibly very painful.

What he'd never considered was that he might actually die of embarrassment. But now he feared that it was a possibility.

He hadn't got quite enough spring out of one leg, but his leap had taken him right up to the wolf. It just stood there, clearly bewildered, as he grabbed onto the pelt with one hand, and prepared to sink the letter opener home with the other.

The monster had let out a yelp, and slapped at his hand with the back of its claws, making him drop the letter opener. Enraged, Dean had taken a swing at it, determined to go down fighting.

He'd connected squarely with the muzzle, and it had let out another yelp, then seized him by the scruff of his dressing gown, and held him at arm's length. It glared at him with a reproachful expression.

"What the fuck are you doing? !" Dean shouted at it. The bitchy glare he received was so clear he practically heard what the wolf was thinking; _I could ask you the same thing, pal._

Before he could protest further, the monster let out a put-upon and very Samesque huff, then deposited Dean in his wheelchair, patted him gently on the head, and began to push him in the direction of one of residential wings.

* * *

We are getting there, srsly...

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Jumping Out Of The Great Big Cake At The Birthday Party Of Life!*

*How you get the frosting off is up to you. Please practise safe gluttony.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Bobby was ushered to where Maurice was carefully cutting his blood sausage, and those around him were letting out shrieks of mock horror as he offered slices to his visitors. His face lit up when he saw Bobby approach.

"Ah, you would be Bobby Singer, he of the hat!" the elderly man quavered, holding out a hand to shake. It was cold.

"How do," nodded Bobby. "So, you're Maurice."

"I am so pleased to meet the man who stood up for his right to wear his hat!" Maurice positively beamed. "We are in awe of your assertiveness in the face of Matron Schultz!" A few other men standing around nodded in agreement. "Some of us are also a little envious," Maurice dropped his voice conspiratorially, "Having heard tell of your encounters with her, both recent and historical. Poor Rudolph, he admires her so, but realises that there can never be anything between them, for obvious reasons."

"Don't believe everything you hear," responded Bobby brusquely, as the party went on around them. "So, Mr Maurice, that's a pretty impressive age you appear to have reached."

"Oh, not really," sighed Maurice, "Surely you have encountered more impressive specimens than me, Bobby."

"What do you mean?" asked Bobby, suddenly alert.

Maurice looked genuinely confused. "Bobby, you were a Hunter, were you not?" the birthday boy asked. "I can smell it on you. Silver, holy water, iron – the smells never leave, you know, to those who can detect them. A very good Hunter," he added with a smile, "Since you have clearly reached an age that is usually unheard of for such people. So," he grinned mischievously, "Can I tempt you with a piece of this wonderful, wonderful blutwurst, prepared so carefully for me by the very talented Max, he of Black Forest cake fame?" Maurice waved the plate of sliced blood sausage at Bobby, and several people standing around made more noises of amused disgust.

"Er, no thanks," demurred Bobby. "Not my thing at all."

"Oh well," Maurice shrugged, "More for the birthday boy!" With that he picked up a piece of the sausage, smacked his lips, extruded a mouthful of fangs, and popped the whole slice into his mouth.

"Vampire!" hissed Bobby, standing up so fast that his chair overturned, "You're a fucking vampire!"

"Alas, no," sighed Maurice regretfully, "I am a celibate vampire. There has been no fucking for a very long time. Such terrible luck. Who gets bitten and turned when they are ninety-eight, I ask you?" He shook his head. "The young idiot who did it, he was so drunk, I don't think he even realised what he was doing. Broke into my house, thought it was empty, probably, emptied my liquor cabinet, then, chomp! I was on several medications – I hope I made him feel thoroughly sick."

"But..." Bobby found himself at a loss. "But, what are you doing here? In a retirement home?"

"I needed somewhere to live," Maurice shrugged, "Someplace where an old man would blend in. I did quite well on the stock market after I retired, so, I invested in this place. Started the renovations, the extensions from the old hospital building..."

"And a wonderful job he did, too," said Paul, clapping Maurice on the shoulder. "The old bloodsucker's investment has made Twilight Towers a really great place to retire to. We all owe him." Several people around them smiled, and raised their glasses to Maurice, who saluted them with more blood sausage.

"So... they know?" Bobby asked.

"Of course they know!" Maurice scoffed, "Everybody knows. There are no secrets in a place like this, as you have discovered."

"So, what the hell do you do?" demanded Bobby, "Is there a feeding roster or something?"

"There is Max's blutwurst," Maurice hummed appreciatively over another slice, "And for me, that is completely adequate. Perhaps because I was so old when I was turned. Too old for sex, too old for blood. Oh, there may be a very occasional supplement, from someone who can afford to donate some..."

"Or who deserves to lose some," sniggered someone behind him. Bobby recognised the sniggerer as Dean's friend Mike.

A lightbulb went off for Bobby. "Scrooge Abraham," he said, "It was you. You bled out Scrooge Abraham. When you found that he was embezzling this place's money. Your money."

"He was warned," Maurice shrugged, "The Board warned him. He had plenty of opportunity to make amends, but he ignored them. After Rudolph's excellent detective work, I warned him. I told him to stop, before he bankrupted this place. He laughed at me. He would have ruined us all. And so, I took action." He pulled a face. "He did not taste nice... ah, speak of the devil, and he shall appear!"

If Bobby's jaw was already on the floor, it opened the storm doors and headed for the cellar.

The chattering crowd parted to reveal the astonishing sight of a large male Old North werewolf pushing Dean in his wheelchair into the party. Several people called greetings to them both. The wolf accepted two beers and handed one to Dean, who gave Bobby a sheepish grin, and a little wave.

"Uh, hi, Bobby," he said. "Uh, there's something I need to tell you about Rudolph..."

"He's a werewolf," muttered Bobby, as the monster moved Dean's chair through the crowd, greeting fellow residents as it went, to bark congratulations at Maurice.

"You will have to excuse Rudolph," Maurice said apologetically, as he offered his plate of blood sausage to the werewolf. Rudolph panted with delight, and delicately accepted a slice. "He does not always manage full control of his shapeshift when the moon is full - something he inherited from his father, he tells me. Usually, he stays in his room, but I would not hear of it on my birthday! I must have someone to share my delicious treat with."

"I think we might've found out what happened to the guy who was found with his heart torn out," suggested Dean, nudging the werewolf. "It was you, wasn't it?" Rudolph gave him a doggy grin.

"He was warned too," explained Maurice, "But nobody takes us seriously, just because we are old. We will not stand for that." A number of voices around them muttered 'Damned straight', 'You tell 'em', and 'Grey power'. "He was making money by facilitating the theft of our residents after they had died. He made a profit from the theft of their organs..."

"So you stole one of his," Bobby nodded. "Makes sense. So, the guy who ate himself to death, how did you do that?"

"Embroidery group," said a man that Bobby recognised as Dean's pal Ian. "They put a curse on him. Warned him that if he didn't stop stealing, his greed would kill him. And it did."

"They cursed Roger the Pervert, too?" asked Dean.

"Oh, no," Maisie Hawkins (thankfully fully clothed) contributed, waving a champagne flute cheerfully, "That was the Knitting Circle. After what he did in their meeting lounge, I wouldn't have given him a warning like they did, but it didn't matter. It was practically suicide, really."

"So, who set the shojo on Killjoy?" asked Dean. "Paul said he didn't do it..."

Bobby had a sudden insight. "It was Mariko, wasn't it?" he deduced, "It was an angry Japanese woman all right, it was Mariko."

"Ah, dear Mrs Yukogawa," smiled Maurice, "The only thing she takes more seriously than her bonsai and her embroidery is Bingo. He's lucky that all she did was stuff the balls up his nose. She probably heard him open the cupboard, like a dog hearing toast crumbs hit the carpet from the other end of the house. She could've knotted all his limbs behind his back, you know..." he looked around the room. "Oh, I don't see her or her embroidery pals yet. A pity, I have some very good sake that I think she would enjoy immensely."

Dean suddenly looked worried. "Mariko is a Bingo fanatic who hangs with the Embroidery group?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Paul confirmed. "Really, Killjoy should've known that going anywhere near the Bingo cupboard was to invite trouble."

"Sam was headed there," Dean cut in, "Sam was going to check out the Bingo equipment, see if he could figure out if some fugly had been there..."

"Holy shit," Bobby caught onto his train of thought, "He's the Knittin' Circle's favourite Gopher. And he's about to run into one of the Embroidery crowd..."

"Oh, crap," breathed Mike.

"They travel as a group," Ian reminded them worriedly, "He's going to run into more than one."

"I'm coming, Sam!" yelled Dean, backing up his wheelchair and heading for the door. With a snarl, Rudolph leaped for the handles, and set off pushing Dean faster than a wheelchair was ever intended to travel.

"Help me, Bobby!" snapped Maurice, looking around at his guests. "Gentlemen, one of us is under threat. To the Bingo Hall!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"So, what do we have here?" asked a greying little old lady, bending down to peer nastily at Sam. He swallowed worriedly. He'd come to, feeling decidedly fuzzy in the head, gagged with a piece of aida cloth, and with his hands and feet tied by skeins of thread in a particularly lurid purple. The group of elderly ladies clustered around him looked particularly unimpressed to have found him. They carried elaborately embroidered work bags. Some of them flipped their bamboo hoops menacingly.

"He was messing with the Bingo cage!" hissed a lady of Japanese descent who leaned on a white oak walking stick. "Like Killjoy!" She smiled a not-nice smile. "Give me five minutes with him, and I guarantee, he will never try to mess with Bingo again. I will shove the balls where the doctor will never find them..."

"He's not just another killjoy, Mariko," another old dear grinned unpleasantly, "This is the Knitting Circle's Gopher. The one with the nice reading voice."

There was a sudden ominous silence.

"Really?" A lady who should've been baking cookies for her great-grandchildren, and not doing a very convincing impression of a Mafia don who was trying to decide what to do with an informer, stroked her rather impressive whiskers thoughtfully. "They think they're so damned good, having a Gopher who will read for them."

"Pack of smug cows," nodded another. "Just because ours resigned!"

"I told you that Ted was useless," sniped her neighbour. "Couldn't tell a profiterole from a patty cake. And he never got the tea and coffee orders right."

"Whereas, golden Gopher here had them correct from day two, didn't you?" the would-be Mafiosa sneered. "And don't they just love to rub it in?"

"What will they say when they find out that their precious pet was messing with Bingo?" sniggered one old dear. "Tut tut."

"That could mean trouble for you, clever Gopher," nodded Mariko, "Messing with Bingo, very serious. A lot of people could be very unhappy with you." She put her stick under his chin, tilting his face upwards. "Maybe we get you to read to us," she said silkily, "Maybe you be our Gopher."

"It could be a way to resolve this... situation," grinned another old lady viciously. "You dish up cake, you pour the drinks right, you read nice for us, maybe we could forget about finding you messing with Bingo."

"We'd hate to see anything happen to you, just because you were trying to save us from the evil clutches of Mammon," chortled another old dear.

"Hey!" hissed the silver-haired granny at the door, "There's someone coming! More than one someone!"

Before he could protest, the little old ladies swarmed over him, and shoved Sam into the Bingo cupboard.

"Be quiet, and maybe we'll let you make it up to us," one of them snarled, before shutting the door, squashing him into the tiny space.

He hated small spaces, but he tried to control his rising panic and his breathing to listen to what was going on. All he had to do was hang on until Dean came to get him. Dean always came to get him...

He heard several newcomers enter the hall.

"Well well, what do we have here?" asked a casual voice that he recognised as the Knitting Circle's most ferocious crocheter. "Oh, it's you lot. I thought I recognised the unique fragrance, a combination of malice, setting lotion and incontinence aid."

"Funny you should be here after hours," commented another, audibly tapping a knitting needle with her nails. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"You wouldn't be interfering with the Bingo equipment, would you?" asked another slyly.

A series of angry hisses ran around the room – an insinuation like that was as bad as inferring that someone liked to bite the heads off kittens and then indecently violate their twitching corpses afterwards.

"You'll be laughing out the other side of your faces when you lose your Gopher!" snarled an embroiderer nastily.

"Not likely to happen," purred a knitter maliciously, "He has a much stronger stomach than Ted had. And a better memory. Oh, and a perfect eye for cutting a cake. And such a lovely reading voice. Makes you want to run barefoot through his sideburns." A number of the other knitters tittered in gloating agreement. "Poor things, you must be so jealous."

"You'll be the ones seething with envy when he becomes our Gopher instead!" hissed Mariko triumphantly. "He will cut our cake, pour our tea, and read the entire series of Black Sheets' deluxe edition extra steamy Doctor-Nurse Romances for us!"

"Never!" came the angry screech in reply.

"It's too late!" yelled Mariko, "We have him now! He's ours!"

With that, the Knitting Circle howled their battle cry – "Fuck you, you pansy-assed decorators of impractical objects!" – and it was handbags at close quarters.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Sam wasn't answering his phone, so when his wolf-powered wheelchair arrived at the Bingo hall and Dean heard the noise from inside, his anxiety leaped. "Sam!" he yelled. Rudolph bounded past him and crashed through the door so that Dean's chair shot unimpeded into the room.

The members of the Knitting Circle were fighting with the Embroidery Group. It was vicious: there was hair-pulling, nail-gouging, shin-kicking, cardigan-tearing, hairnet-twanging, and face-punching. Knitting needles were brandished. Bamboo hoops scythed through the air. And he couldn't see his brother.

"Sam!' he yelled again, his worry mounting. "Rudolph!" he turned to the bewildered-looking werewolf. "Can you find him? I have to find my brother!"

Eyeing the battling broads warily, Rudolph whined uncertainly, then scented the air, turning his muzzle back and forth. He let out a sharp bark, then pushed Dean's chair right into the middle of the melee.

Fending off stray blows, dodging a thrust from a knitting needle, and ducking as an embroidery hoop bounced off his chair and narrowly avoided scalping him, Dean saw that they were headed for a large, robust cupboard. Rudolph barked urgently, and scraped at the cupboard with his claws.

"Sam!" Dean looked around for something to use to prise open the heavy door, and stopped Rudolph as the werewolf drew back a fist. "No! If he's jammed in there, you might hurt him!"

Rudolph subsided, then suddenly yelped and fell back. Behind him stood Mariko Yukogawa, wielding her hanbo. She looked as threatening as any shojo could.

"You cannot have our Gopher!" she brandished her weapon. "He will be ours, now!" She moved in and raised her staff...

"Stop that!" a brisk voice behind her demanded. Dean saw Audrey suddenly loom behind Mariko, and smack her smartly on the arm. "Mrs Yukogawa, this is out of line!"

"Shut up, you!" yelled Mariko, swinging her hanbo viciously at Audrey. The night nurse sighed, as the stick went right through her. "Nobody asked you!"

"He's one of my patients," Audrey informed her, grabbing at the oak staff as it whizzed right through her again. "I'm hardly going to stand by and watch you whack him!"

"Let go of my hanbo!" shrieked Mariko as the tug of war began, "Interfering dead person!"

While Audrey wrangled with an enraged Mariko, Dean ran a hand over the door. "Sam!" he called again. This time he was answered with a muffled thud. He needed to jemmy the door.

With sudden inspiration, he reached behind him, and fetched the Wooden Spoon of Doom.

Jamming it into the frame of his chair, he snapped it off, then jammed the tapered jagged end of the handle into the gap in the doors, wrenching at it.

The door catch finally gave way with a splintering sound, and Dean saw his brother's worried eyes peering back at him.

"Sam!" Dean stumbled out of his chair, and fell to the floor beside his brother. "Hang on, bro, I gotcha, we'll just..."

A ricocheting embroidery hoop nearly took his nose off. "Hands off the Gopher, pal," snarled a lavender-haired lady, "He's ours now!"

A knitting needle embedded itself in the wooden floor. "Never!" screeched a menacing maven behind her. "We found him first!"

Just as Dean feared that he was going to die a death even more embarrassing than being picked up and dusted off by a werewolf, a trucker's cap sailed through the air, thwacking the hoop-wielder squarely in the back of the head.

"It's okay, son!" yelled Bobby, stooping to retrieve his hat, "I've brought the cavalry!"

Dean allowed himself a moment to grin at the scene, as his bird-watching friends and a selection of other male residents joined the fray, keeping the duelling craft groups at bay. They gave him time and space to pull Sam out of the cupboard and free his little brother.

"If women were going to fight over you, I thought it would've happened when you were a lot younger," Dean informed his baby brother, checking him for injuries and frowning at the lump he found on Sam's head. "You good?"

"Yeah," Sam replied in a wobbly voice, "Shaken but not stirred."

"You're gonna have to walk yourself out of here," Dean eyed the brawl going on around them, "I'm gonna have to get back to my chair, and I think that Mrs Yukogawa might've dead-legged Rudolph..."

He was cut off by the voice that rang through the hall, cutting through the combat like a knife through butter.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!"

Every single person stopped what they were doing, and froze.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" The voice boomed again. "CIVILISED PEOPLE DO NOT BEHAVE LIKE THIS!"

* * *

Reviews are the Unexpected Werewolves Serving You Drinks And Delicious Nibblies At The Soiree Of Life!

_What?_

_Oh, all right._

If Werewolves won't do, then Reviews can be the Winchester Of Your Choice Serving You Drinks And Delicious Nibblies At The Soiree Of Life!*

*Nibblies to be served BY them, not ON them. That body sushi thing is just a bit... creepy.


	18. Chapter 18

The end is in sight! Follow me! (If only out of morbid curiosity...)

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

The thing about Matron Schultz, people would tell you, was that she wielded the sort of true authority that meant she never had to raise her voice.

When she did, it was all the more effective

She stood in the doorway, glaring at the combatants who had all frozen in place, like a combination of Moses and Judge Dredd come to lay down the law.

"Civilised people do NOT behave like this!" she repeated.

There was a certain amount of awkward shuffling, throat-clearing, and floor-staring or ceiling-gazing.

"Mr Dorsch," she glared sternly at Rudolph, "I thought we had an _arrangement_ for this time of the lunar cycle?" The milling crowd was treated to the sight of Rudolph gulping and trying to edge behind somebody else. Given that he was six-foot-eight in his wolf form, he didn't have much luck.

"Maurice," she went on, "Did I see you actually baring your fangs at Mrs Henderson? For shame, man!" Maurice looked suitably appalled by his own behaviour, and muttered an apology to the woman who had been trying to stab him with her stitch tension gauge.

"Audrey," Matron addressed the night nurse, "I have asked you to refrain from manifesting outside of the medical centre. Certain members of the staff or the public might find your appearance disconcerting."

"I apologise, Matron," Audrey nodded an acknowledgement, "But one of my patients was under threat." She indicated Dean, who was still sprawled on the floor next to Sam. He gave her a cheerful smile, and a little wave.

"What is that man doing out of bed and on the floor?" she demanded. "Mr Winchester, what are you doing out of bed and on the floor?"

"Uh, limbo?" suggested Dean with a grin.

"Mr Dorsch, redeem yourself and assist him at once!" Rudolph scrambled to obey. "Mrs Yukogawa, you put that down this minute! I will not see a member of my staff threatened!"

"Interfering dead person," muttered Mariko again.

"I don't care if she's the Bride Of Frankenstein, residents interfering with staff going about their duties is not acceptable!" Matron snapped. "Mr Singer, tell me that I did not see you deploy your hat in an offensive capacity!"

"Um," replied Bobby, examining the toe of his shoe closely.

Matron pinched the bridge of her nose, and let out an aggravated huff. "What is this about, ladies?" she asked, narrowing her eyes as she took in the numbers of the Embroidery and Knitting groups. "And don't give me that line about What Eunice Said About Gladys's Filet Couching, that was twenty-seven years ago!"

"They tried to steal our Gopher," muttered a knitter.

"They're so high and mighty about it!" sniped back an embroiderer.

"Oh, enough!" snapped Matron. "If you cannot behave like civilised people, I will have George assign him to the computer club, and none of you will have him!" The ladies glared sullenly, but subsided. "Very well," Matron nodded, "Now, I understand that Maurice's birthday party was in full swing. I suggest that everybody returns to that – but if I see so much as a fang, Maurice, a single fang out of you this evening, I shall confiscate every single bottle in your room and also the ones that you have stashed in various locations around the place, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Matron," answered Maurice compliantly.

"Good. Now, Mr Dorsch, if you will assist me to get Mr Winchester back to his bed, and I think we should have a look at his brother too, you may return to the party, but if I hear so much as a single howl out of you, a single peep, my lad, it will be the rolled up newspaper! Do we understand each other?"

Rudolph's ears drooped as he whined in submission.

"All right then." With a final glare around the room. "Sometimes it's like working in a kindergarten," she declared crossly. "I shall expect the day room to be perfectly presentable by morning tea tomorrow." A chorus of "Yes, Matron"s followed her as she departed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Well, I guess we can chalk this job us as solved, if not actually finished," Bobby shrugged philosophically as Audrey handed him his hot chocolate. "Oh, that's nice," he smacked his lips appreciatively, "You stock good stuff."

"Only the best for our residents," the ghost nurse smiled, handing Dean his cup, "Maurice and Matron insist on it. No brandy in yours I'm afraid, Sam," she added sympathetically, moving to the bed next to Dean's where Sam had been installed at Matron's insistence, "Not with a possible head injury."

"I'll live," Sam assured her, taking the chocolate gratefully.

"So, why exactly did you stick around, Audrey?" asked Bobby. "You really don't strike me as a vengeful spirit, and according to Maurice, your death wasn't violent."

"Aneurysm," confirmed Audrey. "One second I was checking the contents of the dressings cupboard, the next, whammo! Dead as a doornail. I gave poor Matron a bit of a fright, I'm afraid. Of course, she was made of stern stuff even back then. It's been just wonderful watching her grow into the professional she is."

"You could've moved on, though," Bobby prompted, "A reaper would've come for you."

"Oh, he did," Audrey smiled, "But I explained that I wanted to stay. I loved my job! And after the hospital was renovated to become Twilight Towers, well, I just love it even more now I have permanent residents too look after. It helps, you know," she added. "Sometimes, some of them, when the reaper comes, they can be so frightened. It helps to have a familiar face to explain to them that it's all right, it's supposed to happen."

"So, we got a retirement home with a werewolf, a vampire, and a couple of covens, and a ghost who doesn't want to retire." Bobby shook his head. "I don't even know where to start. By rights, we should salt and burn you, madam, then get stabbin', shootin' and decapitatin', and be done with it. But..."

"They're no harm to anyone who doesn't mean them harm," Sam finished for him. "And they're going to... well, uh..."

"They're going to die soon, anyway," Audrey acknowledged matter-of-factly. "Even Maurice will die, one day, and he was so old when he was turned, he's harmless. Well, if you're not a black pudding. Let them be, boys. Please."

"Balls," muttered Bobby. "You might as well as ask me to shoot Ronnie." He sighed deeply. "I vote that on this job, we leave well enough alone." His phone chirped, and he checked it. It was Paul. "Heh heh, he wants to know why I'm missing the party," he chortled. "Apparently, Maisie Hawkins is trying to get a game of naked Twister happening."

"Oh, dear," Audrey sounded concerned, "The last time she did that, we had three slipped discs, a twisted ankle and a couple of scarred psyches."

"Well, I reckon I can leave you two here in Audrey's capable hands," Bobby grinned and adjusted his hat. "At my age, I don't get invited to a lot of parties, so I'm gonna go take advantage."

"If you can't be good, be careful," Dean leered, "And if you can't be careful, name it after me..."

"Idjit," Bobby rumbled fondly on his way out.

"Hey! Make sure you practise safe senility!" Dean yelled after him.

"Dean," sighed Sam with a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "Do you ever get your mind above your belt?"

"Not if I can help it," his big brother smirked, "The air's too thin up there."

They finished their chocolate in comfortable silence, then Sam lay back and closed his eyes. "Thanks for saving my ass again," he said quietly.

"That's okay, Sammy," Dean beamed, "Saving my baby brother's emo ass is my job. Always has been, always will be."

"Always?" For a moment, Sam sounded all of five years old again. It wasn't something they liked to think about, let along talk about. They were both in their sixties, and nobody lived forever. Not even Winchesters. Next time one of them died would be the proverbial, permanent, it.

"Always," Dean said firmly. "If I have to be like Audrey, Sam, I promise you, I will always be there to save your ass."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam's dimples were practically audible as he smiled.

"Just don't expect me to bring you hot chocolate, bitch."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

A couple of days later they were declared fit enough to travel, so they made their goodbyes and prepared to head back to Singer Salvage. Sam said a private goodbye to George, but left with her phone number. The Latin club presented Bobby with a small golden figure as a tribute to his reading from the _Satyricon_. Carolina presented Dean with a self-portrait. The kitchen fixed a travelling snack box for them, and finally the Knitting Circle presented Sam with a hat that one of their number had knitted for him. He tried it on for them, and they cooed in approval.

"What?" asked Sam, as Dean made a noise of disbelief. "It's warm, it's comfy, it fits. What's wrong with my hat?"

"Sam," Dean rolled his eyes, "You can't wear that hat!"

"Why not?" demanded Sam. "One of the ladies had a pattern book – they were all making them for their grandchildren. I think it's kind of endearing."

"It's got antlers," protested Dean. "Antlers, Sam. You look like a moose."

"I'm a moose with a warm head, then," Sam replied serenely. "Now get in the car, and shut up."

Dean was just as annoying on the return trip as he had been outbound, until Bobby managed once again to sedate him with doughnuts and a milkshake.

When they finally pulled into Singer Salvage in the early evening, there was another truck next to RJ's. All three of them grinned when the door banged open, and a half a dozen dogs came running out to greet them. Running with the pack were two giggling toddlers, who made a beeline for Dean.

"Careful, careful, Grandpa's got a sore leg," warned Sam as the two laughing boys swarmed up Dean's good leg and into his lap, yelling "Pa! Pa!" at the tops of their voices.

"Hey, guys!" Dean beamed, ruffling his grandsons' hair. "Oof! You guys are growing! Wanna ride with Grandpa?"

"Yaaaaaay!" went the boys. RJ shook his head in bemusement as he heaved bags out of the trunk.

"Okay, then," Dean grinned, "Well, hang on, and we'll just let Uncle Francis do all the work, shall we?"

"Jerk," smiled Sam, taking hold of the wheelchair handles and carefully making his way through the milling dogs. "Hey, Sabine," he called, "What the hell are you feeding these kids, lead shot? Depleted uranium?"

"Dirt," RJ's wife answered frankly as they made their way indoors. "That, and worms. And snails. Every time I turn my back, they're out foraging! God, Ian caught a damned mouse the other day – I suppose I should be glad I found him before he ate it..."

"You chased and caught mice when you were a pup," came an amused voice from behind them. Ronnie stood, grinning at her daughter. "Caught more than your brother. Ate more of them, too. I worried that I wasn't feeding you enough. Dragged the remains of a rabbit in under your bed, too, don't think I've forgotten that."

"Oh, gross," Dean screwed up his nose, "Hey, RJ, next time, breed with a human, huh?"

"Screw off, Dad," RJ replied with an angelic smile.

Sabine rolled her eyes at her kids. "Hey, why don't you leave Grandpa alone for a minute?" she swatted at Ian and Sam as they slid from his lap. "Go and bug Uncle Bobby."

"Ungle Bumbee!" the twins shrieked, making for Bobby, who mimed horror as they rushed at him and clung to his legs.

"Oh, no!" he quavered, "The pack has run me down! Maybe if I amuse them, they won't eat me. Maybe... if we go for a ride on the stairs?"

"Yaaaaaay!" chorused the boys again, hanging on to Bobby's hands as they dragged him towards the stair-lift he was too proud to ever use except to keep the twins occupied.

"Crap, I was never that noisy," Dean winced, looking up at Ronnie. In her seventies, her face was lined, her scar standing out, and her hair was faded to silver-grey, but her eyes were as sharp as ever. "Did your kids really go hunting for snacks?"

"It's a wolf thing," she smiled a ghost of the smile that Dean had only really ever seen her smile for her mate, "It's perfectly normal for the offspring of werewolves, once they learn that they can shapeshift. They grow out of it, though. It's a bit like learning not to pick your nose or scratch your arse in public."

"Sam ate worms when he was a kid," Dean pointed out, "And look how smart he turned out. It must've been all that low-fat protein, I guess."

"I did not!" retorted his brother as he walked past with another bag from the car.

"You did too," Dean insisted, "You put them in a sandwich, once, when you wanted spaghetti but there wasn't any..."

"Jerk," muttered Sam, stalking upstairs.

"Are you ever going to stop teasing your brother?" asked Ronnie.

"Never," confirmed Dean. "So, how long are you here for?"

"Here at Bobby's?" she asked with a wry grin, "Or here on this mortal coil?"

"You know what I mean," he mumbled, his smile vanishing. "Don't... don't be like that." He paused. "RJ says you've been going out," he said quietly, "At night. Running. Is that a wolf thing, too?"

"It is," she answered. "When one of a pair-bond is gone. I miss him," she said simply, "I miss him, and I'm ready to follow."

"It's just..." he found himself lost for words. "When you... leave yourself somewhere where they can find you, okay?" he managed shakily. "They'll want to know. They'll want to see."

"I will," she said, "I've promised Connor and Sabine that."

"Good," he humphed. "Because I for one want to make sure you're properly salted and burned."

"Ha!" she sniffed, "Like I'd waste any of my precious afterlife haunting your miserable presence."

"You totally would!" he insisted. "Just to piss me off!"

"If I wanted to piss you off, I'd do it now, while I can still really appreciate it," she smiled sweetly. "For instance, did you know that Sabine baked an apple and blueberry pie this afternoon?"

"Yeah?" Dean beamed. "Cool! Where is it?"

"Somewhere you won't be able to reach it, wheelie-boy," she smirked. "But do feel free to think about what you're missing out on, mmmmmm, pie..."

"Hey! Hey!" he wheeled himself after her. "Where's the damned pie?"

"Somewhere. Excuse me, I've suddenly thought of something very important I have to do."

"Ronnie! _Ronnie! _I'll pull your tail, asshole!"

"Werewolves don't have tails, you dickhead!"

"Then I'll swat you with a frigging newspaper!"

"You really have turned out to be a grumpy old man, you know that?"

"Sam! Saaaaaaam! Get me my silver ammo!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby gazed into the bottom of his glass. After the uproar of their homecoming to find that Sabine, Ronnie, and the twins Ian and Sam – or Havoc and Mayhem, as he sometimes thought of them – had joined RJ, it had been a cheerfully noisy and boisterous dinnertime, at which Dean had finally been presented with a slice of the pie he'd been raging about all evening. The two little boys were the cutest, happiest little things, but they were exhausting just to be around - much like another two boys who'd landed on his doorstep all those years ago, as he recalled. By the time they'd been bathed, put to bed, and Grandpa Dean had read 'Go The Fuck To Sleep' to them, the adults were also ready to crash. "They're like some sort of psychic vampires rather than werewolves," Sam had groaned, "They suck the energy out of everybody they go near, leaving nothing but an exhausted shell." Dean had barely had the energy left to call his brother a bitch.

Now he had some peace: Dean and Sam had retired to their room, still bickering, RJ and Sabine were in another with the twins, and Ronnie... he sighed. She'd come back before dawn this time, but maybe not for much longer... he found he couldn't begrudge her the yearning for her mate. He had quiet hope that he'd be reunited with the love of his own life in the not too distant future...

The house was quiet around him now by contrast. He chuckled to himself, remembering a time when he'd felt so desolate at the idea he'd never have kids – yet here he was, with a third generation of rugrats driving him nuts in his own home. Kids always made the place seem so busy, so chaotic, so loud. First, out of nowhere, there had been Dean and Sam, then there had been RJ, and Connor and Sabine visiting, now there was Ian and Sam... he wasn't sure whether having the munchkins running around made him feel young, or old, or just crazy.

He decided that they made him feel happy, and he was content with that.

He emptied his glass and got up to head to his own bed.

He was about to put his foot on the bottom stair when there was a knock at the front door.

Frowning, he lifted his gun, which was never far from hand – he would die a Hunter, whatever happened – and made his way noiselessly along the hall.

The knocking came again, a little more insistent, with a voice behind it.

"Bobby? Bobby? I saw the light on. Are you still awake?"

Bobby sighed, and slid the safety back to on.

"Bobby? I've brought booze. A lovely single malt from the Isle of Skye, Talisker."

_Why me_, Bobby asked the uncaring universe, _why me?_

The knocking resumed. "Bobby, please let me in, it's bloody freezing out here, and your dogs, love, your dogs are looking at me, you know, doing that looking at me like they'd like to eat me?"

The sensible thing to do, Bobby decided, would be to ignore the asshat on the other side of the door, and go to bed. He couldn't come in if he wasn't let in, so he could knock all night and be damned...

"Please, Bobby," pleaded the voice. "They all hate me. I make the place run, and they all hate me for it. They despise me. They're so rude to me. They're so mean to me. They'd stomp me as soon as look at me – they want to ruin my suits, and shred my ties, and make me very unhappy indeed."

Was that a sniffle he heard?

"Please, Bobby," the voice sounded very small, "I just want somebody to talk to..."

_Balls._

"Crowley, if you're here to try to recruit me for your Board, you're still wastin' your time," scowled Bobby as he opened the door.

"Bobby!" the King of Hell brightened immediately. "Oh, it's good to see you, mate! No, no, I just wanted to chat! Chew the fat, shoot the breeze, get the goss and keep a finger on the pulse... look, while I'm here, maybe I could just leave the selection criteria with you?..."

"Idjit," muttered Bobby, shutting the door behind them.

**THE END, JUST ABOUT**

* * *

There really is a children's book called 'Go The Fuck To Sleep'. There's a YouChoob clip of Samuel L. Jackson reading it.

... hang on, the bunny says there's just a bit more...


	19. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Quite some considerable time later..._

Bobby peered thoughtfully at the lure he was tying, then added another small dark red feather. It seemed like several lifetimes since he'd last found the time just to down tools and go fishing, but now he had the time, he would damned well enjoy it. Outside, the refreshing overnight rain had cleared, and the weather held the promise of perfect conditions for the next couple of days.

He was just finishing when the familiar rumble of a modern Classic pulled up by the house, and the barking of multiple dogs started up. "Idjits," he muttered to himself, smiling as he pushed away from his work bench and went to greet the Winchesters.

"Hey, Bobby!" called Dean sunnily as he banged through the door carrying a rod and tackle box in addition to his duffel. Half a dozen dogs followed him, wagging their tails and barging up to Bobby to greet him. "Guess what, Francis is going to join us!"

"Only because you wouldn't stop pestering me until I agreed," grumbled Sam, following his brother, "And I swear, if you start regaling us with stories of Chicks I Have Banged, just because you think you have a captive audience, I will push you overboard."

"You need some man-time, Sam," stated Dean firmly, "Otherwise you'll finally turn into a great big girl."

"It does do a body good to get a weekend pass from time to time," nodded Bobby, patting various big square heads. "Hey there, kids, you lookin' after these idjits?" He glanced out the window as two more trucks pulled in. "Although I'm with Sam on the 'no lewd recollections' thing, Dean. You'll scare the fish. Or at least, you'll scare me."

"Singer!" bellowed a voice from the door.

"Speakin' of scarin' the fish..." muttered Bobby. "We're all in the same grid square, Rufus, there's no need to bawl the place down, idjit!"

"Sorry," smiled Rufus, not sounding the least bit apologetic as he barged in with his rod. "Hey, who let the dogs out?" he called out over his shoulder.

"You mean, who let the dogs in," grinned Andrew, bringing up the rear.

"You're only in because you got let out," Rufus elbowed him. "Like Sam, and Bobby. So, what did you guys have to agree to in order to get weekend leave?"

"Jess made him promise to have sex with the lights on," leered Dean, as Sam shot him a Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk), "And Bobby had to promise to take his hat off to go to bed for a whole week..."

"Actually, I was abandoned," confided Andrew ruefully, "There's a canine obedience trial been organised, and she's taking the whole pack..."

"Cas said he might try to make it, too," Dean went on, "Depending on how busy he is."

"How has Feathers been, anyway?" asked Bobby with immaculate timing as the _flap-flap_ of incoming trench coat sounded softly.

"Hello, Dean," said Castiel in his usual gravelly tone.

"Gah!" Dean jumped backwards. "Cas! Personal! Space! How long have I been trying to teach you about it now? One century, two maybe, or does it only seem like that long? I nearly dropped the cooler, Cas! This is serious!"

"My apologies," the Sheriff of Heaven nodded seriously. "Thank you for the invitation to experience 'fishing', Bobby," he went on in the same grave tone, "It is not an activity that I have myself participated in before, and from Dean's description of it as a form of 'sacred man-time,' I am eager to see what profound insights into humanity it might provide."

"I don't know about profound insights," chortled Bobby, "But you will surely be treated to a level of bullshit that I doubt you've ever experienced before."

"I got you a hat," Dean told Castiel, removing a faded blue flannel had from his bag, resplendent with various small items associated with the pastime of fishing, and handing it to Castiel.

The Angel of the Lord peered at it with a vague air of confusion. "I do not need a hat," he commented. "Technically, neither do you."

"Come on, Cas," grinned Dean, putting on his own ridiculous fishing hat, "You can't go fishing without a suitable hat! It's a vital traditional requirement! It's like a uniform, a universal signal. You put on a hat like this, it tells the whole of Creation, the entire universe, in any dimension, 'This Man Is Fishing – Do Not Disturb Him Except To Bring More Beer'. You absolutely _must_ wear the hat."

Castiel regarded him gravely, then placed the hat on his head with all the ceremony and reverence of an archbishop donning his mitre before a consecration ritual. "Thank you, Dean," he said, "For sharing this human tradition with me. I shall wear the hat, in order to partake most fully of the experience."

"Don't you pay any attention to him, Castiel," Karen said, emerging from the kitchen and pushing a hamper into Bobby's arms, "He's more full of crap than a Kentucky outhouse."

"Did you make pie?" Dean rolled his eyes wistfully.

"Yes, but like Sam, I only did it to shut you up," she rolled her eyes, then pecked Bobby on the cheek. "You lot behave yourselves."

"Yes, dear," muttered Bobby theatrically.

"Always," grinned Andrew, while Rufus fluttered his eyelashes beatifically.

It was only a short walk through a wooded area to the lake, where a small jetty jutted out into the still water. A modest but sturdy boat with an outboard motor, proclaimed by the plaque on the stern to be the _Devil's Trap _(Karen had named it, 'Because it seems that once you get into it, you just can't get yourself out again, you devil,') bobbed gently against the tyre bumpers. With a certain amount of bickering, teasing, and threats of dunking, they boarded as Bobby pulled the cover off the engine, started it, and motored them to the middle of the lake.

They dropped their lines, opened the beer cooler, and got on with the business of Sacred Man-Time.

"So Cas, how goes it with the standing in for your Father?" asked Sam.

"Administrative matters continue to require much attention," the Sheriff of Heaven answered. "Hell is currently still experiencing ongoing... I suppose you would call it political unrest," he related. "The Hierachy of senior demonic nobility are being particularly... vigorous in their pursuit of their petty power games, intrigues and plots against each other. It is getting to a point where the impact outside of Hell is approaching unacceptable levels. Crowley actually sent a diplomatic communiqué about it. In fact, Bobby, it is a topic that I wish to discuss with you..."

"Er, what the hell is that?" interrupted Dean, pointing back towards the shore.

"It looks a bit like a giant raccoon, and possibly a Kodiak bear," opined Rufus, squinting. "Do you have raccoons and bears in the woods?"

Whatever it was, the smaller figure, the postulated giant raccoon, appeared to be jumping up and down, and waving its arms.

"I don't think it's a raccoon," said Andrew uncertainly, sniffing the breeze, "I can't smell raccoon. Or bear."

"But if it is a raccoon, think what an awesome hat you could make!" suggested Dean enthusiastically, "You could have a raccoon coat! A raccoon bedspread!"

The light breeze picked up a little, and brought a faint drifting cry to them across the water.

"Bobbyyyyyyy! Oh, Bobbyyyyyyyyyyy!"

Sam's jaw dropped. "Is that who I think it is?"

"Bobbyyyyyyyyy!" came the anxious cry, as the figure on the shore saw that it had been notice, and redoubled its efforts. "Bobbyyyyyyyyy, yooohooooooooo!"

"God's tits," muttered Bobby darkly, "What's he doin' here?"

"As I was telling you, Crowley contacted me via official channels," Castiel went on. "He is having some difficulty in dealing with the governance of Hell at the moment, and..."

"What the fuck is he doing?" asked Dean incredulously.

"Wastin' his time," grumped Bobby, opening another beer and turning his back to the figure back on shore. "He can damn well wait. He's not interruptin' my fishing."

The small figure spent another few minutes trying to attract Bobby's attention, then gave up, and tried a new strategy.

"What's he doing now?" mused Sam.

"Looks like the mountain is coming to Mohammed," grinned Rufus.

As they watched, a small orange speck moved across the lake towards them. As it got closer, it proved to be Crowley, wearing a bright orange lifejacket, in a small rowboat, which was being rowed by an enormous diabolical fiend. He waved frantically, then the fiend drew carefully alongside.

"Bobby!" he beamed, "It's so good to see you mate!"

"Can't say as the sentiment's returned," Bobby grunted. "Hey there, Orgle," he went on in a more friendly tone to the fiend, "You still working for this asshole?"

"Hello, Mr Singer!" chirped the enormous fiend, all his mouths smiling, "It's wonderful that you finally made it Up Here! I like your lake! It's very calm, isn't it? Very serene. The colours alone are just marvellous, so many shades of blue!"

"How the fuck did he get here?" demanded Rufus.

"Oh look, it's the Sidekick, the Sisters Winchester, and Rin Tin Tin," sighed Crowley, as the various inhabitants of the boat sneered, scowled, or bared fangs at him. "Let joy be unconfined. I'll have you know that I am here on an official diplomatic mission." He reached into his jacket, and pulled out a passport. "See? Diplomatic visa. All official. Right now, I am Ambassador Crowley, here with my capable assistant, Attaché Orgle." Orgle beamed proudly. "Tell them, Castiel."

"It is true," Castiel said in a portentous tone, "Crowley is here to request divine assistance in quelling the current political unrest in Hell."

"They hate me, you know," the King of Hell said mournfully, "Everything I do for them, work myself to the bone to keep the place running, and they despise me. Ungrateful, selfish, utter, utter bastards."

"I can't think why," snapped Bobby. "So, what does this have to do with me?"

"Didn't you get my letters?" asked Crowley, looking a little surprised.

"Nope," Bobby told him, "Well, technically, yes, the herald angels did deliver 'em, but I didn't read 'em. Used 'em to start the fire on chilly nights. They were good for that, better than firelighters..."

"What about my p-mails?" Crowley queried plaintively.

"Nope again," Bobby grinned smugly, "I had a word with Senior Librarian Danael. She put a filter on the Inbox, so none of yours get through to me."

"Oh," Crowley looked reproachful. "I was trying to contact you."

"Well, now you're here, scarin' the fish, and ruinin' my day, I suppose the sooner I hear you out, the sooner I can tell you to screw off," sighed Bobby.

Crowley brightened visibly. "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Now, it appears that His Acting Feathery Bigwigness has told you, there is a bit of squabbling in Hell..."

"In much the same way there was a bit of squabbling over Europe during World War Two," nodded Andrew.

"Well, yes," admitted Crowley sheepishly, "That sort of squabbling. Only not so subtle. Despite my best efforts, there is an unusually high level of diabolical shenanigans going on. Petty schemes, puerile power plays, pulling of pigtails and kicking over of sandcastles, as it were. Kick-The-King-Of-Hell-Off-His-Throne-And-Turn-Him-Into-A-Small-Smear-Of-Sulphur kind of squabbling. And, well, I'm not too proud to admit that I could use some help."

"Crowley has approached me diplomatically," Castiel explained, "To ask whether he might borrow you..."

"The phrase I used was 'retain your professional expertise'," Crowley interjected anxiously.

"Indeed, he asked whether he might retain your services as a visiting consultant, in order to bring some equilibrium back to Hell," Castiel finished. "However, I did not want to speak for you, and stipulated that he would have to ask you himself."

"And why exactly do we care if you're about to be deposed, Your Majesty?" asked Rufus.

"Because if there's nobody to keep a lid on it, the nastiness in Hell spills over," sighed Bobby.

"Exactly!" nodded Crowley. "And we don't want that, do we? I don't want that. Castiel doesn't want that. And I'm sure you don't want that. You lived on that maltreated little blue marble for your whole life, you have to feel some lingering fondness for it. And you're a Hunter, love, a Man of Knowledge, you'd be perfect for dealing with these ungrateful backstabbing arseholes..."

"Yeah, I'm a Hunter, who's retired," Bobby pointed out. "Retired, as in I Don't Do That Any More. I'm dead, Crowley! That's how retired I am!"

"Please, Bobby," pleaded Crowley, "I need your help. You spent most of your adult life keeping Tweedledum and Tweedledumber here under control, the Hierarchy of Hell will be a walk in the park for you! You'll have an office," he wheedled, "A big office, and a complement of staff, you can borrow Orgle if you like," the fiend nodded eagerly, "And your office can have a drinks cabinet, and you can have a bidet of your own if you like, you can bring as many of your dogs as you like, in fact, I think it would be a good idea to bring the ones with Hellhound heritage, their Auntie Gedda would love the company, and they scare the bejesus out of a lot of the Hierarchy..."

"As an official representative of Heaven acting in such an important position, you would be accorded the temporary authority and dignity appropriate to your posting, to grant you the wherewithal to deal with the recalcitrance of senior demonic nobles," Castiel told him.

"Yeah?" snorted Bobby. "And what would that entail? Giving me a super soaker full of holy water? A really big stick, maybe? Or sole custody of the Diabolical Library's photocopier counter?"

Castiel looked thoughtful. "I too pondered on how best to accomplish this, and prayed to my Father, requesting Revelation. The idea that came to me did not involve large toy guns, or blunt instruments as offensive weapons." He moved forwards to touch Bobby's forehead. "What I believe my Father suggested was more of..." Bobby's eyes bugged briefly, then his face broke into a radiant smile of understanding.

With a rustling flap, a pair of large, dark grey feathered wings stretched out behind Bobby. Grinning in delight, he flapped them twice, then with a snapping boom, he shot into the air.

"...A temporary rank of Acting Archangel," Castiel finished.

"Holy shit," breathed Dean, watching his ecstatic practically-father swoop and dive through the still air, "How are we supposed to explain this to Karen?"

"What do you say, Saint Bobby?" called Crowley. "Or should I call you Robertiel? Will you take the job?"

"Yahooooooooooo!" whooped Bobby, performing a barrel roll, which Orgle applauded energetically. "You betcha! Let me at 'em, Feathers!"

"Very well," nodded Castiel, "I shall make arrangements for you to be seconded to Hell in a temporary capacity."

"If he's going to be an Acting Archangel," mused Sam, "What other stuff can he do that's, you know, archangelic? If he's going to be able to take on any heavy hitters Down There, if the shit really hits the fan?"

Castiel answered, "He will deal with any uncooperative demons the way that we have always dealt with them..."

Bobby tucked in his wings and fell into a steep dive towards the small rowboat, making a noise reminiscent of a strafing fighter plane. At the last moment, he pulled out of the dive and swooped sharply upward. As he did so, there was a crackle of ozone and a flash of blue-white light.

Crowley let out a startled shriek as his lifejacket began to smoke. He stood up and slapped at it, still shrieking, as Orgle smacked his oars onto the surface and struggled to keep the small vessel from capsizing.

"...By smiting," finished Castiel matter-of-factly.

Bobby turned for another strafing run, this time adding in the sound effects of a Stuka's wailing descent siren and machine gun chatter. Crowley waved his hands over his head, howling in horror, and at the base of his parabola, Bobby smacked him smartly upside the ear.

Still howling, Crowley toppled into the water.

Bobby hovered just above the surface of the lake, as Crowley spluttered and dogpaddled in bewildered circles.

"You know," Bobby grinned mercilessly, "This lake is in my idea of Heaven, my little piece of the afterlife. I can make it however I like."

"Yes, yes, and a very convincing lake it is too, chum," griped Crowley, spitting out a mouthful of water, "Very watery, very wet, very lakelike indeed. You get full marks in Lake Construction 101. Well done you." He picked a piece of weed out from behind an ear, and made a disgusted face.

"The thing is," Bobby went on, "I could, if I wanted to, make it, say, a saltwater lake. Or a thermal lake. Or even a lake entirely filled with holy water..."

Crowley's eyes widened in horror. "You wouldn't!" he squeaked, "You wouldn't! Bobby, love, you wouldn't do such a thing!"

"Hmmm," mused Andrew, "Sounds like a blatant abuse of power to me."

"Yup," agreed Rufus, nodding, "He'll fit right in to Hell. When in Rome, and such."

"But that wouldn't be very sportin', now, would it?" Bobby continued.

"It most certainly would not, Robert Steven Singer," yapped Crowley irritably, "And I'm hurt, truly hurt, more than angry, that you could suggest doing such a thing."

Bobby peered hard at Crowley. "Did you just pee in my lake?" he demanded.

"What? No!" yelped Crowley, "At least, not intentionally. I mean, you scared me with the holy water threat..."

"Well, if we're gonna do this, there's no time like the present," humphed Bobby. "Orgle, be a good fiend, go back to the house, and tell Mrs Singer that I'll want my box, the one in the closet in the spare room, and ask could she pack me a hamper, please."

"I'm on it, Mr Singer!" declared Orgle diligently, turning the small boat, and putting his back into it, rowing rapidly back towards shore.

"I shall accompany Orgle, so as not to startle your wife, and to explain your posting to her," Castiel told them. "I am very grateful for your assistance in this matter, Bobby." With a flap, he disappeared, then reappeared sitting in the rowboat with Orgle.

"Hey! HEY!" called Crowley, "What about me?"

"I suggest you get the hell out of my lake before I change my mind about the holy water," growled Bobby, aiming a very small smite at the water just in front of Crowley. A hand composed of water rose from the surface, and slapped Crowley on the ear again. The King of Hell let out one last shriek, then began paddling as hard as he could for shore, with Bobby hovering close by and encouraging him with the odd smite.

"Well, that was unexpected," shrugged Dean, taking another drink of beer.

"Do you think he'll make Crowley paddle all the way back to shore?" asked Andrew, in a tone suggesting that if Bobby did that, it would at least make for an entertaining afternoon.

"Possibly not," observed Sam, as Bobby swooped in and grabbed Crowley by the collar of his lifejacket, hauling the howling King of Hell into the air and heading for shore. "Oh, it seems Crowley is not a happy flier. That's actually something he has in common with you, Dean. That, and getting smacked upside the head by Bobby."

They considered taking the boat back in, but then Rufus pointed out that being two men down meant that there were more fish, more food, and more beers, for each of them. And it was a nice day, so they decided to stay put for a couple more hours. Bobby really had done a good job with the lake; it would've been just plain rude not to make full use of it. And, they told themselves, none of them wanted to piss off Robertiel the Acting Archangel.

**REALLY THE END**

* * *

*Squelch* Aaaaand another plot bunny stomped. Huzzah! I just love the way their tender little bones go crunch under my boots... so, until the wretched rodents next pop out of my tea mug, my helmet, or some other unexpected hiding place, tata for now. Because you can't possibly want a visit from the DDD&SSS van while they're in their sixties, can you?...

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Rowing You Across The Serene Lake* Of Life! With A Picnic Hamper.

*Don't push them in just to look at them in wet clothing, you depraved individuals.


End file.
